Occupational Hazard
by ramblelite
Summary: Set 1.10: Vital Signs- A dangerous and shocking part of Neal's past re-enters his life, and he's not sure even the threat of returning to prison and losing everything he's worked for at the FBI will be enough for him to control himself.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Something in Neal's soul flared, only a little, just the tiniest bit, the moment the needle broke his skin. Maybe it was adrenaline, perhaps it was fear, but it excited him. The fact that he was being administered this against his will was irrelevant: the smooth slippery liquid his veins were slowly sipping was going to make him feel good.

"I hope there's something fun in there, Nurse Ratched." His words are his first indication of the drug's affects; or at least, their delivery. His tongue slips and the last word sort of falls out of Neal's mouth, and he lets his gripped fist go limp. His head follows, and flops to the side, and last comes his mind. It slips away, in ripples, and he begins to soar. Portions of the spectrum grip his soul and swim through his veins, his body becoming a complete rainbow of color. The pale blue orbs in the whites of his eyes roll upward, then everything goes black. Something shifts in his mind, then snaps. He's taken.

This isn't exactly the most important thought in his mind right now- his brain has melted, and Neal finds a childlike glee in everything around him- but he knows Peter is going to be upset with him when he's found like this. While technically, this particular situation was an occupational hazard, a result of the job... this was once who Neal was. But no matter how deep you search, no matter what files you go through, you won't find it. Neal is so much more than one man- the entirety of his life has been cons and changes and different identities... there isn't any certainty in who he is anymore. This part... this unfortunate, self-destructive facet of himself that he can't seem to shake, you won't find it anywhere. Peter won't find it anywhere. He wouldn't have seen it coming, he doesn't know about it, because this isn't what Neal Caffrey is famous for. He's famous for stealing art and being a master of the craft of forgery, not for doing all those things for the money for his next hit. If you mentioned that to him, he would immediately go into defense mode: he doesn't do what he does for the drugs, he does it for the thrill. He does it because he's good at it, he's the master and that's what masters of their craft do- they show off every chance they get. The drugs were a side effect, if you will. After their introduction, Neal was hooked, the way he is to every exciting thing in his life. It's his addiction- not the drugs, but the thrill. He's addicted to the thrill and that includes running right up to the edge of the cliff with everything you involve yourself in. It's easy to see where the appeal was for him.

Prison cleaned him up. A blessing in disguise, he used to say. Even criminal mastermind Neal Caffrey couldn't get his fix in the confines of maximum security. But the temptation was always there, just like it always is. Temptation is his lady in black. It will always be what takes him down, and it will be what is the end of him. It was there the first time he experimented with drugs. It was there when Adler offered him a job. It was there when he ordered the prison guard uniform. It was there, waiting, when Peter told him not to go looking for Kate. It's always there. It's kind of sad, in a way. Temptation is the only thing that's been with Neal as long as he can remember. His constant companion. Not Peter. Not Kate. Not even Mozzie. Temptation.

The windows of the room appear to be melting, and when he looks down at his feet, they ripple as though they are underwater. A small smile, only for himself, plays on his lips. This smile isn't for anyone else' benefit. It's for him. In this moment, right here, he feels truly complete. More complete than he's ever felt with Kate. More complete than when he cracks a case with Peter. Normally, this would be followed with remorse, but right now it doesn't matter. All that matters is that Neal feels good. For the first time in a long time, Neal is perfectly happy with putting himself first and just feeling good.

Time has passed... it may be a minute and it may be a day, but to Neal, it hasn't been long enough. He's just started to get to the really good part and he almost feels like singing. Fuck. Why not. Why doesn't he?

"In the morning mist two lovers kissed and the world stood still... Hey buddy!" The smile on Neal's face is genuine... right now he couldn't be happier to see Peter. The furrowed brow Peter wears is genuine, too... but it's not all anger. The beautifully intelligent man has been reduced to near nothingness and that's what scares Peter more than anything.

"Shhh! Alright, we have to..." Something about restraints. Neal's focus is gone and he's not sure if Peter means the restraints around Neal's wrists, or the emotional restraint Neal so often completely lacks, keeping him from reaching his full potential. Neal is all heart in everything he does, whether it's search for Kate or break out of jail or steal art, and sometimes his heart gets in the way of getting the job done correctly or safely, as this incident proves. Neals fists limply hold themselves together as he lifts his hands, the leather and chain cuffs clattering to the carpeted floor, landing with a deadened thump.

"Ooh, you mean these? What. Never met a lock I couldn't pick... expect my anklet."  
"Alright, come on," Peter interrupts him, grunting as he lifts the intoxicated man from the bed. This is what Neal is- a burden. That's all Neal has ever been to Peter, or at least, that's what he tells himself. He's only ever caused you trouble, Burke. The words ring in his head over and over, but they're just echoes, they don't actually mean anything to him. Peter knows he cares much more about Neal that he'd ever admit. After reassuring Peter twice that he's got it, he's got it, Neal attempts to stand on his own, but immediately collapses back into Peter's arms. When Peter glances down again, something catches his eye: a small sparkle in Neal's eyes, like they're smiling. It's not his usual twinkle that he turns on to charm the pants off of anyone and everyone he meets, it's something different, genuine. He's studied Neal long enough to know the charmer look, this is something Neal can't control. It's genuine happiness and for the life of him, Peter can't figure out what it is about this fucked-up situation that is making Neal so damn happy. Then again, if Neal can find some good in this terrible situation, Peter isn't sure he wants to know what it is.


	2. Chapter 2: A Brief History

Chapter 2

The cuff around his wrist is cool. His body is over-heating and the cool metal feels wonderful against his warm skin. He studies it, twisting his wrist around inside the cuff, feeling it trail over his skin. "I could slip you off," he murmurs, still impaired. "That wouldn't be picking, that'd be slipping." The weight of the cuff is starting to get a little heavy, so he lets his wrist fall to the floor, resting his head against the wall and staring at the ceiling. And he thinks about Peter.

That almost pisses him off more than anything. Here he is, cuffed to an office chair, enjoying what he can only describe as easily the most incredible high he's ever felt in his life, and all he can think about is how disappointed Peter will be. That should be an indication to Neal. He should take that as a sign: This will thoroughly fuck up _everything _he's worked for, he should leave this incident alone. It happened, it was unfortunate, it will not happen again.

Unfortunately, that's not how Neal Caffrey works. If there's a chance this could work for him, if there's even _the slightest chance _he can pull this off without Peter ever even knowing, he could do it. Every moment of his life is tortured with the decisions he made, and back then, even then... even when things were simple, and he was happy, and all he needed was Kate's company and that empty bottle of Bordeaux, those decisions and the things he's done preyed on him. It wasn't long before the cheap wine on clearance they filled that bottle with just wasn't cutting it anymore, it was too much. On the outside, Caffrey is a man of charisma and charm, but inside, all he wanted was numb, and cheap wine in an old bottle of expensive Bordeaux only goes so far. He needed something stronger.

It started out innocently enough. There was a girl, a long time ago. Earlier than Kate, but not quite as far back is Brittany Nicole, the second-grader who had judged Neal by the gap in his teeth. Her name matched her image. Willow was almost as tall as Neal, and so slender her limbs appeared to sway like branches in a storm. Her eyes and hair were almost identical in color, a deep, honey brown with flecks of red when the sun hit her the right way. It seemed to most who saw her, the sun was always hitting her the right way. She was a natural, she understood the Game and she knew how to manipulate people. Neal knew this, and despite her constant reassurance that she would never manipulate _him_, Neal found himself using a bit more care than usual. They ran small cons together. She was exceptionally good with fixing money, he was exceptionally good with the art and the face of the Game. She possessed the same need to take everything as far as it can go, and what started out as a string of relatively simple cons for a little extra cash on the side quickly turned into something Neal was not entirely comfortable with. He knew danger. He understood it well enough, but this was completely new territory for him. They had agreed, no drugs, no guns, and no deaths, but after three years of running art and finance-based cons with little to show for it, there they were, drawing out plans to smuggle a veritable potpourri of illegal substances into the country. "For a friend," she said. They were going to be in Russia anyway for the work they were doing with Malevich's _Suprematist Composition_, and Willow knew someone who needed a favor. Of course, with all things in the con world, there was a catch.

"He's very distrusting."

"Obviously," Neal smirked, shifting the paintbrush in his deft fingers before adding a few more strokes of red to his version of Malevich's geometric 'masterpiece'. "Why am I doing this again?"

Willow shifts in her armchair, before standing and crossing the room to stand behind Neal, studying his work. "You're doing this because the original anonymous buyer of _Suprematist Composition _has reported it missing."Neal turns his attention to her, eyebrows raised.

"I know. We have it."

She smiles. "Exactly. The buyer has offered an incredible reward, obviously, and we can use this to bring attention to the States, while we pop over to Khabarovsk and return the painting to its original owner for a large sum."

Fraternizing with a group of derelicte drug dealers/users was not Neal's idea of a good time, but worse still was that he was expected to participate in the activity. There's little that can be done for your conscience or beliefs, however, when you really fucking need the money.

Willow quietly reassured Neal, whispering in his ear as she tightened the belt around his bicep. His knuckles were white as they gripped the sides of the chair he had been pushed into by the burly doorman in the corner, and he lifted his head and searched the ceiling. Not that he actually expected to find solace or assistance in the dark and rotted wooden beams that criss-crossed the ceiling, but it was better than watching what was about to happen. The hiss and fizzle of a lighter made him jump, and the acidic vinegar-tainted smell that bubbled from the spoon assaulted his nostrils. A man of good physique and conscious health, Neal Caffrey was not particularly thrilled he was allowing this substance to enter his body, but he felt as though he didn't have a choice. This was something that would haunt Neal years later, as it still does today: he swore to never let himself get into a situation again where he felt he didn't have a choice. The sharp sting and the rush accompanied by Willow pressing her thumb down on the plunger brought Neal out of this thought, and back into the moment. It seemed the drug was just as desperate as the junkies that surrounded him, it sped and darted through his veins, hell-bent on finding its way through every part of his body. His knuckles gained color and his grip relaxed almost immediately, and his head dropped forward, eyes fluttering shut. Warm, calming color oozed across the backs of his eyelids, like a lava lamp, and his entire body felt like he had been pulled from a freezer as a block of ice and tossed into a hot sauna: tingling all over as his body and mind melted into relaxed euphoria. A goofy grin crept over his lips, and he could hear Willow's voice as she lightly laughed in reaction. It sounded slowed down to him. Movement felt suspended, like he was wading through jelly, aware of his every motion, and then he was free-falling, tumbling, flying, soaring through space and time and happiness and history and all of God's most beautiful creations.

Her voice echoed in his mind, and he opened his eyes, attempting to focus on her double-image as he slid from the chair to the cold cement, which felt good against his heated skin. "Neal? How are you, Neal?" He was the most perfect he had ever been, and ever would be. And it wasn't long before he would do anything to feel that way again.

Now, in this moment, as he's feeling this way, or at least close to it, cuffed to the office chair at the clinic, Neal feels slightly sick as he reflects on his past. He knows now that he'll be returning to prison for life for the stunt he's just pulled, and it almost tears him apart to know he's feeling this good, only to be returned to prison where he will never again have the opportunity. When Peter returns clutching a small surveillance tape, a more important realization hits Neal, and his guilt and remorse shake him. Peter Burke, the FBI agent who caught Neal, twice, has stolen property to protect him. This sparks a coherent thought in Neal's drug-addled mind.

"You know, before I go back you should know this. Out of all the people in my life. You know, Mozzie... Kate, even, you're the only one."

It always worries Peter when Neal starts talking like this. He sighs and locks his eyes on the intoxicated young man. "The only one what?"

Neal plants his forefinger square in the middle of Peter's chest, pushing slightly when he speaks. "You're the only one I trust."

In that moment, two things happened. The first thing was that Neal realized his relationship with Peter had shifted completely right then, with those words. The second thing was that Peter was finally starting to come around to reciprocate: he was finally beginning to truly trust Neal.


	3. Chapter 3: Warning Signs

It's been a few days, Neal thinks. He's kind of lost track of time, but Peter's no-nonsense attitude keeps him at least somewhat on his toes. The boardroom is full of people, and they're all talking over each other and offering up suggestion and right about now is when Neal would raise his hand like a schoolboy and not speak until called on, offering a shockingly intelligent but highly risky and/or dangerous plan that is often itself one big legal grey area, but he's silent.

"Boss, I've got Wilcox's latest audits for you," Diana announces as she breezes past Neal, pushing a small stack of files across the glass table to Peter. He flips through them, nodding as he does.

"Perfect. These are great, Diana, just great. Neal, I need you to go over Wilcox's profile and give me a rough estimate of how long we have before he runs. Neal? Neal."

Suddenly it's silent, and Neal glances up from his seat at the far end of the table to find everyone in the room staring at him. He furrows his brow, looking at them, looking at him. "What."

Peter just stares, Diana smiles and shakes her head, and Jones lightly scoffs from the corner of the room, arms folded. "Why'd you even show up today, Caffrey? Your usual enthusiasm is seriously lacking," Diana jokes as she turns her attention back to the files. Neal's momentary lapse in focus is forgotten as the remainder of the staff go back to solving crimes, but Peter is still studying his young protegee, eyes narrowed. He presses his palms against the glass, leveling with Neal.

"I need you to focus, Neal. Wilcox is going to run with over $150 million in innocent retirees' pension plans and he will be able to get away with it because we have yet to find what legal loophole he is manipulating to help him control his clients' funds." Neal holds his hands up in defense, then reaches across the table for the files. He hops up from his chair and sits on the glass table, facing away from Peter, flipping through them. He doesn't look at Peter when he speaks, but rather continues to study the papers.  
"I'm focused. It looks like insurance investigators had some issues with paperwork back in '06, but dismissed them due to inadequate evidence of fraud."

Peter throws his hands up in exasperation. "It's _absolutely _evidence of fraud, these people are getting coerced into entering pension investment contracts that financially penalize them for doing so!"

"That's exactly it, the victims are signing the documents voluntarily after being introduced to the contract by Wilcox," Jones mutters as he looks down, fixing his tie.

Diana looks up at this. "So there's nothing we can do?"

Peter shakes his head, murmuring. "I don't think we can book him because old people can't see the fine print."

Diana studies the profile again. "Really, there has to be something on him." Neal finally stands and turns to face the rest of the group, pushing the files across the desk and pointing.

"Look, there's some sort of anomaly with 2010's numbers. It says he acquired 103 new contracts within the calendar year, but the total on the service charges doesn't match. It's missing the equivalent of... what, 15 new contract fees?"

"So _where _did that money go, and why hasn't it been reported on his audits?" Jones inquires. Peter nods, standing a little taller as he studies the papers.

"Let's find out. Good, this is good. Jones, get me ID's on all of his new clients for the 2010 calendar year, we need to find which 15 have missing contract fees. Neal, with me."

Diana and Jones look on as Neal follows Peter out the door and into Peter's office. The agent sits in his desk chair, crossing his arms and giving Neal his 'concerned' face, pursed lips and all. He just studies Neal for a moment, not speaking, and Neal's eyes dart back and forth, attempting to figure out what he's done this time. Finally, Peter looks down, pressing a palm onto his desk. "Let's talk, Neal." A brief pause, then Neal looks down, nods, and sits at the chair across Peter.  
"...Am I in trouble?" Peter shrugs, then looks out the window for a moment. He keeps his gaze fixed on the New York skyline when he speaks.  
"I don't know. Mozzie says you've been hiding out. Says you... fell off the radar."  
"You've been talking to Mozzie?" Neal laughs.  
"I talk to a lot of people, Neal. I'm FBI. Why are you avoiding Mozzie, and June?"  
Neal shrugs, and stands. "I'm not, Peter. Listen, I'm showing up to work, doing my job, and staying within my radius. That's all you should be concerned about." He turns to exit but Peter stops him.  
"Stop. About face." Neal rolls his eyes, and whirls around, tapping his foot with impatience. "No, no, you don't get to look at me like that. That would be the case if you were any other CI, but you're not. You're Neal Caffrey and when you randomly start isolating yourself from important people..." Peter shrugs. "...it sets off a red flag."

"Peter, I'm a walking red flag. Can I go now? I need to do some research on Wilcox." Peter folds, nodding and waving him off, but the nagging concern still prods at him. The honest truth is Neal has been home, hiding out. Before coming into work today, he'd been home for 5 days straight: holed up, windows shut, doors locked, recovering from being doped in Powell's office by surviving on little more than saltines and whiskey. Not exactly doctor recommended, but Neal calls it an herbal remedy and leaves it alone.

Not tonight, though. Tonight, he has plans. Tonight, he's going to let himself feel good. After plenty of deliberation and moral distress (something he is in fact capable of, despite his reputation) and drunken phone calls to various former contacts, he scored within his radius, and now he's home, alone, with the only thing he's ever truly regretted as much as loved. Stretched out on the lounge chair, he pulls his belt off, wrapping it around his arm and pulling it tight with his teeth. There's a brief moment of first-date jitters, butterflies in his stomach, which was once a completely foreign feeling to Neal, right before he puts needle to skin. His hands are shaking in violent tremors, also something foreign to him, and he's struggling to find a good site, but when he does, it's all worth it. His teeth un-clench, his body cools, but feels warm at the same time, and any thoughts of who Neal is, was, could have been, or wants to be vanish without a trace. He lays back, eyes rolling back into his head, his dark curls lightly matting against his forehead in the heat of the moment, and just rides the high. All of his feelings of guilt, remorse, fear, and panic wash away. A call rings through on his phone, and Neal's half-unconscious body limply jolts in response to the noise, but he barely reacts beyond that, pulling his knees against his chest, before he finds total solace in the quiet calm his mind has finally found.

...

"Neal, what have you got?" Peter barks the next morning, not even looking at his agents as he skims over Jones' list of 2010 clients. Neal adjusts his glasses, squinting as his head swims and tries to make sense of the notes he scrawled the night before in a drunken haze, long before he even got the drugs. He studies his papers for a moment, then squeezes his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Ah, Wilcox spends a lot on charity. His charitable donations write-offs are through the roof. We're talking Gates money," he murmurs, voice rasping slightly.

"Where is it going?" Peter asks, less and less confident that this case is still warm.

"Don't know yet, donation write-offs have some interesting grey areas. If a high-profile donor is giving to a sensitive cause that he personally has experience with, he can elect for his write-offs to indicate as charitable donations without specifying a specific recipient."

"Is there a way to verify he's donating to a legitimate charity?" Diana inquires.

"Yeah, but it's also a pretty interesting grey area. If we can go back far enough, we can get his personal finance reports and write-offs, and you can't elect confidentiality on personal records. If this is something so high profile and near and dear to his heart, he's probably been donating for a long time. If we find any donations that far back, we can identify the recipient and check with them to see if he's made any donations since then."

"If he has, we'll run the numbers and find a match," Jones offers. Peter nods.

"Once we find the organizations, we could cross-reference them with the client list, see if there's any connection there. Eliminate some, if not most, and get a little closer to finding our 15 lucky clients who apparently don't have to pay contractual fees," Diana adds.

"Great," Peter announces, shutting the folder in front of him. "That's good for now, I'll see you all back here in an hour." The small crowd begins to sift out and Neal is almost out the door when he hears the words that seal his fate. "Neal, hang back for me." He stops dead in his tracks, and his shoulders slump. He turns.

"Yeah."

Peter motions for him to sit, and he does, folding his arms across the table. "I think we need to have a talk."

"A talk about what." Peter quickly becomes visibly irritated.

"You know damn well what, you smell like a distillery."

Neal's caught off guard momentarily, then regains composure. "Peter-"

He's interrupted by Peter's fist pounding against the glass. "I have put my _entire career_, on the line for you. There are certain expectations we have here, Neal, and that includes coming to work sober. This isn't like you." Neal shifts uncomfortably, and he can't bring himself to look at his mentor in the eye.

"I would never come into work drunk, you should know me better than that."

Peter raises his eyebrows at this, then scoffs, shaking his head. "I don't know what you are, Neal. I'm starting to think this arrangement might not work after all." The words sting, and Neal shifts again, slumping a little lower in the chair.

He hesitates, then begins again. "It's fine, really-"

"Do you take me for a complete idiot?!" Neal isn't quite sure what Peter means, and he tilts his head slightly, looking for clarification. The agent scoffs. "You're wearing yesterday's suit, first of all. I mean, that should be signal number one. In addition, your notes are barely legible, your hair isn't combed, you're wearing glasses, and we all know you only do that when you're playing a doctor... I'm an FBI agent, Neal. Don't think you can pull this stuff on me." Neal shifts, still unable to make eye contact with Peter. He rests his head in his palm, exhaling a sharp breath.

"Okay, okay, I'm sorry. You're right. I am _really _hung-over, but it's nothing I can't push aside. We have work to do."

"I appreciate your enthusiasm, but that's not the issue here. I stopped by last night, but June said you had gone to bed already. Alright, no problem, so we sit for a quick cup of coffee and talk. She says you've been acting different, Neal."

Neal finally looks up at this, searching Peter's eyes. _How much does he know? _"Different...how?"

Peter hesitates. His voice is quiet. "Just go home. Get some rest. You can re-join the case when you've got some control over yourself."

"Come on, Peter, you're overreacting."

"No! No, I don't think I am. I don't there there is such a thing as overreacting when it comes to you, Neal! I don't!"

Neal stands, pressing his palms against the desk. "I can help you with this case. I'm on to something here."

Peter shakes his head, looking down, and Neal takes that as his cue to leave.

He's been dismissed.


	4. Chapter 4: Suspect Behaviour

Chapter 4

"Neal? Neal…please answer, Neal. I think it's important."

June's words ease him awake. No, not ease. Ease suggests the process is comfortable and relaxed. June's words jolt him awake. He blinks twice, and brings a palm to his pounding forehead, taking in his surroundings. He's sprawled out on the floor, and his apartment looks like a crime scene. The normally immaculately-kept space is littered with bottles, crimson-stained tissues, and discarded rigs, and several paintings have clattered to the floor. There's a bandage wrapped around his upper arm, and it takes a moment for him to remember slicing a considerable gash into his arm trying to cut the belt off when he was too drunk to get it off himself. The radio sings a low, static hum, and he reaches out an arm, flailing slightly until he slams the 'off' button. After slipping on a shirt, making sure it covers both the bandage and his bruised, pock-marked forearm, he rises, shaking out his hair, and scrubbing his hands over his face. After kicking the bottles under the sofa and stashing his rigs in the cubbyhole behind the painting next to his bed, he crosses over to the door and opens it a crack. "Yeah."

"Peter's here, I think it's rather important," June pauses. "Are you alright, dear? You look pale." The deep click-clack of Peter's shoes coming down the hall warn Neal, and he clears his throat and stands a little taller just as his boss shows up in the doorway. Neal forces a smile at June.

"I'm fine. Just a little under the weather. Thanks, June." He nods at her, and opens the door all the way, making room for Peter to enter. The men lock eyes and study each other as Peter crosses into the apartment. He pauses just inside the doorway, then turns to look at Neal.

"You were right. The 15 clients are somehow connected to his charitable contributions," Peter admits, adjusting his trousers before sitting at the table. Neal pours coffee into a mug for Peter, then some for himself, taking the seat across from him.  
"Have we identified if the charity is legit?"  
Peter nods, sipping his coffee. "Yep. All we know at this point, though, is that it's a non-profit drug and alcohol rehabilitation facility." Neal's breath hitches, and Peter stops. "What."  
"Nothing. So how are the 15 clients connected?"  
"Not sure yet, all we know is they are all somehow affiliated with the organization."  
Neal raises his eyebrows, looking down at his coffee mug. "So, I'm assuming you're here to tell me you're proud of my genius and I can return to work?"

When Peter doesn't respond, Neal looks up. Peter's eyes are locked on something on the counter. When Neal turns to see what's caught his mentor's attention, his heart sinks. "Peter, I-"

"What did you do, Neal?" All Neal can do in response is sink a little lower in his chair while Peter stands, crossing the room and inspecting the knife on the counter covered in blood. The agent turns, now visibly angry. "What the hell happened?"

Neal shuts his eyes, making sure to stay facing away from Peter. "It was an accident, cut myself cooking," he lies through his teeth.

Peter nods, though clearly isn't convinced. "Cut yourself cooking. Where?"  
Neal finally rises, crossing over to the knife and running it under water. "Don't worry about it, let's get to the office."

Peter grunts in response, and studies Neal for a moment. It's a test. If Neal breaks eye contact, he's fucked. He maintains himself, and he almost thinks he's clear, when Peter's brow furrows. "You're hungover again." Neal breaks eye contact and studies the knife in the sink, feeling like he's just been punched in the gut. Peter shifts, folding his arms across his chest. "What's going on, Neal. Talk to me."

"I had a few drinks. Is that a problem? I'm a big boy, I can handle myself."

"Can you?" Peter challenges, and finally, Neal cracks, his voice low and as close to menacing as it can get.

"Listen, Peter. I get it. I'm your little project. A single goddamn thing happens to me and Hughes will serve you up to the board on a silver platter. But I am your employee and what goes on in my _personal life _ is no concern of yours. Just forget it, and let's get to work."

This catches Peter off guard, and he stops a moment, then nods, looking down. "Yeah. Okay. Let's go."

Neal knows better than to believe he's off the hook, but it doesn't stop him from grabbing the flask from the door of his end table and slipping it into the messenger-style briefcase he slings over his shoulder before following Peter out the door, because God knows he needs it.

In the boardroom, Neal is antsy. It feels like the entire White Collar division is crammed into the space, Neal is claustrophobic, and no matter what happens in the room, Peter has been staring at him since he sat down.

"At this point, we've identified the 15 clients, but we can't determine association with the rehabilitation clinic due to doctor/patient confidentiality laws," Diana says, shrugging.

"Do we have anything more on Wilcox's financials?" says Jones, sipping his coffee.

Diana points her clicker to a graph on the flat screen. "Several malpractice lawsuits were filed against the facility in 2010, shortly after Wilcox gave a few lucky clients a pass on their contract fees. They were dropped when the plaintiffs involved all rescinded their claims, nearly simultaneously."

"I tried to look into the details of the lawsuits, but again, protected under doctor/patient confidentiality," Diana admits, clearly bothered by this. Jones nods, looking down for a moment, before suddenly standing, shoving his hands into his pockets and studying the graph.

"Something isn't right here. I don't think it's too early to consider an undercover investigation," Jones ventures, crossing his arms. Peter's lips slightly twitch upward, still focused on Neal. The younger man's heart sinks. He knows where this is going.

"I think that's a great idea, Jones. Neal, start packing. You're going to rehab."


	5. Chapter 5: Off the Hook

A/N: Hi friends! I just wanted to take a quick second to say thank you for the response and support I'm getting for 'Occupational Hazard'. This is my first story on , and I'm absolutely having a ball with it. Some have pointed out that the first chapter started strong but the second chapter was lacking, and I agree completely. It was a set up chapter and I'm currently in the process of moving on campus, but I feel I've got a better grip on where I'm going with it and I promise there's lots more in store. 3

Chapter 5:

"Peter, this is absolutely ridiculous. You know I'm always game for an undercover job, but this is a little…involved."

Neal's pacing. He's angry, and he wants to make sure Peter knows it. Peter just watches from his desk chair, eyebrows raised.

"It's just acting, Neal. That's not a problem….right?" It's a challenge, Neal knows it and Peter knows it.

Neal sighs. "Right. I just don't think it's a good fit in terms of characters I play. Can I pull it off?"

Peter raises his eyebrows. "You're doing a damn good job right now."

Neal tosses his hands up in exasperation, then scrubs them over his face, exhausted. "Peter, leave it alone. I'm not an alcoholic, and you're overreacting. Things have been going well for a while, and it's got you suspicious, I get that. But you need to trust me on this."

Diana knocks on the door, and Peter waves her in. "Bad news, Boss." She drops a file on his desk, standing behind him. "New Day Clinic isn't accepting new patients. They've locked down, something's got them spooked." Neal visibly relaxes, and a sigh of relief washes over him. Peter sees this, but doesn't acknowledge it.

"Great, just great. See, this? This is why I hate medical cases… it's like FBI means nothing to them."

"So no undercover job?" Neal ventures, adjusting his hat. Diana shakes her head, still looking at the papers on Peter's desk.

"We have to get to them somehow. Do we know anything about the employees of the facility?" Peter asks, eyeing Neal suspiciously.

"Master list is in the boardroom."

"Great. I want to talk to whoever's in charge of the facility. Not the whole charity, just…. whoever is actually running the facility itself."

Diana nods. "I'll set it up." She breezes past Neal on her way out, and Peter gives him a knowing look.

"You got off lucky," Peter murmurs, eyes locked on his computer monitor as he clicks around. Neal sighs, and sits in the chair across Peter.

"I appreciate your concern, Peter, but I'm fine. It's just a…"

"Rough patch?" Peter offers, but Neal shakes his head.

"No, stop. It's just something I'm trying to figure out myself."

Peter looks up at this. Something shifts in this moment and he realizes it's wrong to abuse his power like this and taunt Neal. He also realizes how serious this actually is. His voice is quiet. He's not mocking, he's not accusing, he's just asking. "So it is something, then."

Neal hesitates. "Yeah. Okay, yeah, it's something. I don't know what it is, but I'll get it figured out."

Peter just studies Neal for a moment. There's something in Neal's eyes, and Peter isn't sure what it is. It reminds him of the look he wore the day Kate died, but not quite. It's like Neal has lost something incredibly important to him and is desperately trying to get it back. This is what worries Peter more than anything. When Neal feels strongly about something, he loses all sense of logic and rationality, and becomes a different person. It works both for and against him: it means he is extremely dedicated to everything he does, but it can also bring him to his knees.

"Neal…" Peter starts, but when Neal brings his gaze up to meet Peter's, the older man stops. He hesitates, then starts again. "What's this about. Why are you doing this?"

Neal thinks about the question for a moment. He stands, and flips his hat before putting it on. "Because if I don't, Peter, I'll lose my mind." With that, he takes his exit, sauntering out of Peter's office, down the hall, into the elevator, and right out the front door. And Peter just watches after him.

Once at home, Neal just takes some time to think about the situation, over a few glasses of wine, of course. He's off the hook. Does that mean he gets a free pass? No, of course not. This isn't permission for him to continue on this self-destructive path he's on, but he knows if he stops now, he WILL lose his mind. He wasn't exaggerating. He's already halfway there, and that's what the drugs and booze are for: to silence the madness that is quickly taking him over. Peter needs to decide what he wants from Neal: he can have him constantly comfortably numb and impaired, or he can have him sober and absolutely bat-shit insane. There isn't really an option in between, anymore, and he's going to have to get a lot worse before he starts to get better.

He's absolutely exhausted. He sits on the couch, head in his hands, the warmth from the wine slowly spreading through him. He's sad. He's desperately, overwhelmingly sad, and all he wants is to stop feeling the pain and guilt that pulses through him every moment of every day. He's spent a good part of the last year and a half helping others, working for the good of the American people, solving crimes, but it doesn't change the fact that Kate is dead, Willow is dead, and both are his fault.

Later that night, he's still thinking about this when a knock on the door interrupts his thoughts. He stands, swaying slightly, a little drunk, and goes to the door, opening it a crack. His stomach flips and his heart sinks. "Peter."

Peter nods to him. "Neal. Can I come in?"

No point hiding out now. Neal motions for him to enter, then goes to the fridge, pulling out a beer for Peter and pouring himself another glass of wine. He joins Peter at the table. He doesn't speak. He just looks down, quiet, sipping slowly. Peter studies him.

"How are you?" Neal just nods in response, still not looking at Peter. Peter takes a moment, looking at his watch, then sipping his beer. "Can you look at me?" Neal looks up, his brain taking a moment to catch up with his eyes. Peter studies him, and realizes just how tired Neal looks: the blue shadows under his lower lashes, the pale face, the bloodshot eyes. He can tell his quick and cunning CI is impaired, but he doesn't mention that. "I'd like it if you could explain what's going on in that head of yours."

Neal doesn't want to talk. Peter wouldn't understand. Peter doesn't get it. Neal's done things, some horrible things, and he's not sure how much Peter knows, but he doesn't want to find out. He's finally found something that can quiet the voice in his head, tormenting him, and Peter wants to take that away. "What do you want to know," Neal asks, sipping, looking down again.

Peter shrugs. "What happened. Something changed. Why now?"

Neal searches the ceiling, then the floor, then his glass of wine. Anywhere but Peter's eyes. "I guess I broke."

Peter nods, taking this in. "This isn't like you, Neal."

Neal looks up at this. "What am I like?"

Peter is caught off guard. He thinks for a moment. "You're usually…relaxed. Controlled. At ease."

"And now I'm out of control?"

"I don't know if I would call it out of control, but you're not yourself. This isn't you."

Neal sighs. "I think it is, Peter. I think this is what happens when you live the life I've lived, then try to pretend none of it ever happened." His words are starting to slur, but this is pure truth. He's not usually this honest but alcohol does strange things to people. He couldn't stop now, even if he wanted to.

"I can't keep you on as a CI like this, you know."

"Like what?" Neal challenges. Come on, Peter. Say it.

"This…this situation, you've gotten yourself into."

Neal almost laughs. Calling it a 'situation' is a gross understatement. Neal's losing his mind and the only way he can deal with it is to drink it away. Wash it away through a needle, when he can. "Situation?" he asks, standing, a little uneasy, and going to the counter to open a new bottle of wine.

"Would you stop?" Peter interjects. "What I'm saying is important, I need you to be able to remember it in the morning." Neal pauses where he is, then hangs his head, palms pressed against the counter. Peter looks down. "This has to stop. You can't keep this up. Not while you're working for me."

Neal doesn't look up. "So maybe I don't want to work for you anymore." He's drunk, he doesn't mean it, but the words sear through Peter. He exhales a deep breath in a whoosh.

"Then, you go back to prison."

"Either way, I have to stop."

Peter nods, repeating. "Either way, you have to stop."

Neal finally turns around, returning to his chair. He stares at Peter, searching his eyes. He speaks with conviction, but his voice shakes slightly. He wouldn't ever admit it, but the reality of what he's about to say terrifies him. "What if I can't."

"Then we've got a bigger problem on our hands." Peter pauses, and studies Neal. The intense stare gets to Neal, and he looks down. Peter doesn't want to ask, but he has to. "Is that a possibility? Do you not think you can?" Neal quickly interrupts him, shaking his head.

"Of course I can." Peter's lips twitch, and he looks down, wearing a sad smile.

"Any time you want, right?" He stands, grabbing his coat, and pulling it on as he speaks. "Have a good night, Neal. Take care of yourself. Decide what you really want." Neal doesn't respond, but just keeps his head down, nodding. Peter takes one last look at him, standing in the doorway. "Neal?" The younger man looks up at him. "Don't come in tomorrow." It stings, but Neal nods, looking back down, and Peter walks out the door.


	6. Chapter 6: Safe House

A/N: Hi friends! This chapter is longer than usual for y'all. I start university full time tomorrow so I will not be able to update as frequently as I had been, so I decided to give this chapter a bit more length, and I should have an update at least once a week. Neal seems to be heading the right direction, especially now that he's fighting for something he has experience with. Love to all, and of course, thank you for reading. 3

Chapter 6

"Don't you think that's just enabling him? Making him stay home? At least if he's at work you can keep an eye on him," El suggests over dinner. Peter shakes his head, gritting his teeth.

"I can't risk it, the stakes are too high. If there's even the slightest chance this will get in the way of his performance at work, I have to say no. He can't show up impaired."

El raises her eyebrows, looking back down at her plate. "Would Neal do that?"

"I don't think he would intentionally, but he's going down fast."

This confuses Elizabeth. The man of what seemed to be infinite poise, grace, and strength is crumbling. Was it all just a facade? She frowns, pushing the broccoli around on her plate, then looks back up at her husband. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

Peter sighs, then reaches for her hand, holding it tight. "I don't know, El." She studies him for a moment, then smiles.

"I'll keep an eye on him while you're at work tomorrow." Peter nods. He's smiling too, but it's a sad smile.

"Thank you." He gives her a light smooch as he stands, cleaning up his plate, sneaking a bit of casserole to Satchmo as he passes. El stays where she is, deep in thought. When Peter returns from the kitchen, she looks up at him, her face concerned.

"Where is he right now?"

"Probably still at home. He wasn't doing too well when I left." Elizabeth's eyes widen.

"And you left him there like that?" He looks up at her.

"What was I supposed to do?"

"Stay with him? He's not rational right now."

"He's in trouble, but he's not an idiot." His thought is interrupted by a phone call, and he sighs, picking it up. "Yeah, Jones." El raises her eyes at this. Peter's face falls, and he squeezes his eyes shut, his free hand curling into a gripped fist. They exchange a few words, and he hangs up.

El just searches his eyes. "What is it?"

"NYPD has Neal. Public intoxication, they want me to come pick him up." He stands, pulling on his coat. "I need to go, hon. I'm sorry."

She nods, waving him off. "Go, go. Bring him back here when you're done." Peter nods, kissing her cheek before he breezes out the door.

El sighs, propping her elbow up on the table and resting her chin in her palm. Satchmo whines, and she looks over at him.

"You never gave me this much trouble when you were younger," she informs him. "Thank you."

Peter isn't one to get nervous, but he has no idea how to approach this situation. What is he supposed to say to the NYPD office? How is he going to explain this to Hughes? What is he going to do with Neal?

When he approaches the desk, the officer stands, already seeming to know who he's here for. "This way, Agent Burke."

"I'm sorry about this. I hope he didn't give you too much trouble."

The officer shakes his head, holding out a hand to show Peter the way. "Not at all, sir, he was very cooperative." Peter nods to him, and heads down the hall to a small waiting room. He sits for a moment, debating what to say to Caffrey, when an agent leads the young man into the room. He's stumbling, his hair is tangled, his clothes are wrinkled, and he almost looks like a different person. His eyes stay down, ashamed. Regretful.

The officer removes Neal's cuffs and Peter signs the release forms, immediately grabbing Neal by the arm and briskly walking him out, lips pursed, silent. Neal doesn't say a word, he just lets Peter lead him to the car. The drive is almost intolerably silent. After so much time together, they've learned to bounce witty and clever banter off each other so quickly it feels like a natural instinct, but the silence speaks volumes: their relationship isn't the same anymore. Neal's still drunk. Ridiculously drunk, but he's not aggressive or violent or loud. He's just sad. It's a sad, desperate, hopeless kind of drunk that you can only reach when you feel you don't have any options left. It's the satisfying kind of drunk that can only be reached with life-threatening amounts of toxins, the kind of drunk you can only reach when you just don't value your own life enough anymore, to the point where it really doesn't matter whether or not you'll wake up tomorrow. The harshest lesson Neal has ever learned is the terrifying reality that his actions are capable of ending a life. He's ashamed he can't muster up enough strength to keep his actions from ending his own. It takes him a while, but even in this fog he realizes they're not heading towards 86 Riverside. He doesn't look at Peter, but instead continues to stare out the window when he speaks, voice rough and slurred.

"Where're we going."

Peter looks out the window, and sighs, then looks back at Neal. "My house. I'm not leaving you alone for another second." Neal takes this in, then nods, looking down. He knows his right to challenge Peter has been revoked. They stop at a red light, and Peter just studies his CI. It strikes him when he realizes how young Neal looks in this moment. Vulnerable. Defenseless. Wounded. "What were you thinking?"

Neal just shakes his head, leaning back against the headrest, shutting his eyes. His head is pounding and he feels horrifically nauseous. Peter just looks at him again.

"Neal?" But he's asleep. Peter sighs, and finishes the rest of the drive trying to figure out what he's going to do with the closest thing to a son he's ever had.

When he pulls in, El is standing outside, arms crossed over her chest. She jogs over to the car, and Peter quickly brings a finger to his lips as he climbs out, warning her. She nods, carefully opening the car door and touching Neal's arm, gently easing him awake. It takes a moment, but he shifts in the seat, squinting as he adjusts to his new surroundings. Peter helps him inside and they get him on the couch, under a blanket. El brings him a bowl, 'just in case', and shuts off the lights, joining Peter in the kitchen.

She rubs his back, then sits next to him. "Are you okay, hon?" Peter just sits for a moment, not saying a word. After a while, he looks up at his wife, completely lost.

"I don't know what to do. They didn't cover this at Quantico."

She laughs lightly, putting a hand over his. "I married a smart man. You can figure this out."

He raises his eyebrows. "I've never dealt with anything like this before, El. This is uncharted territory. I don't know if I'm the right person to help him."

She smiles at him. "I think you're exactly the right person to help him. You're the only family he's got, really. He looks up to you. He trusts you. You can put this right."

He nods, looking over at the young man, so vulnerable and transparent in his sleep. Peter isn't sure he's ever seen Neal with his guard down before. Neal Caffrey is a man of walls, stories, and facades. He knows exactly how to read a situation, and adapts to it. He's always been able to handle anything that comes his way, but it's obvious he's never had to fight himself before. Neal has spent his life figuring people out: how to read them, what they want to hear, how to charm and manipulate them. But he never took the time to learn how to protect himself when the enemy he's facing is his own mind.

"He knows how to fight everyone except himself."

El shrugs. "Maybe that's what he needs. An outside opinion. Someone to hold a mirror up to him and show him the way."

Peter looks up. "The way to what?" His wife smiles, but it's sad. He sees it in her eyes.

"The way back? I think he's lost."

Peter looks over at Neal, and smiles when he sees Satchmo wander over to the younger man's prone figure, sniff around for a moment, and climb up onto the couch to curl up beside him.

"You think so?" El smiles again.

"I know so."

The next morning, Peter goes to say goodbye to El, and before he heads out the door, goes to say a few words to Neal, but the young man is still asleep.

Words can't explain how grateful Peter is for his wife in this moment. His beautiful, smart, kind wife who has put up with his work for a decade. She's happy to do it, Neal is like family and it hurts to see him hurt.

The morning is rough, but they get through it. Neal is miserably sick and can hardly keep any food down, and he keeps saying he's fine and he just wants to go home, but El knows him better than that.

After the worst of it has passed, they sit across from each other at the table, silent, Neal slowly sipping at a tall glass of water and doing his best to finish the sandwich Elizabeth has fixed for him. She studies him, arms folded on the table.

"Neal?"

He doesn't look up at her. "Yeah."

"It's going to be okay."

He nods, still not looking up. "I know." He shakes his head. "I hate intruding on you and Peter like this."

She reaches for his hand, willing him to look up, and he does. "You are not intruding. We're going to fix this."

He looks back down, smirking. "I don't need to be fixed."

She smiles, but it's sad. "I know, hon."

He looks up, determined. "I can help Peter with this case, I'm on to something. He needs to trust me."

She sighs. "He does trust you. He just doesn't want you to get hurt."

It takes a moment, but Neal nods, understanding. "I know." He pauses. "I owe him an apology."

She tilts her head. "What for?"

Neal shrugs. "For getting him involved in this mess."

El frowns. "Oh, hon, you're not a mess." He laughs lightly.

"Are you kidding?" He looks over his shoulder, and leans in slightly. "I know why the rehab shut down." She blinks, and sits up a little straighter.

"Would you like to share?"

He sips his water, licks his lips, and lowers his voice. "The financial advisor sent a report to Wilcox late last week, asking for permission to access a specific list of wealthy clients' deep histories. They've got everything on these people, and they're blackmailing them."

"With what information?"

"With their addictions. If they don't pay the blackmail, they'll publicize their files. These are people who's reputations depend on discretion, they're threatening to inform the public of their…situations."

El eyes widen, and she looks down, processing the information. She sighs, and looks up at him, concerned. "Are you sure?"

"That's where I went last night. They told me they weren't accepting new patients, I was drunk, they called security. They locked me down in a holding room, I saw what they were doing."

"And they thought you wouldn't remember." He smiles, and taps a finger to his head. She studies his eyes, a matching smile creeping onto her lips, but it quickly fades. "Have you told Peter this?"

"I… couldn't really articulate the information last night. I wanted to tell him this morning but I missed him."

El studies him for a moment. She trusts Neal, she's confident this is important to him, and she thinks he's capable. "Would you like me to drive you to the office?"

He raises his eyebrows, holding up his hands. "I'm not going to be blamed for getting you in trouble with Peter, I know you're under orders to keep me here."

She smiles. "I think Peter will understand."


	7. Chapter 7, Part 1: Running Blind

A/N: Hi friends, just a quick note- First, I've realized if I'm going to be posting less frequently, I need to work on length, so this is part 1 of 2 for chapter 7. Part 2 will be up either tonight or tomorrow. Secondly, this was a _really _hard chapter for me, both to write, and to muster up the strength to post. This is primarily because the events just hit so incredibly close to home for me, and figuring out how to take the story where it needs to go without letting my personal emotions get in the way was something I really struggled with. In addition, I also know this chapter is a very hard and upsetting read, as will be the next few, but as I know from my own history and experiences, very few people are ever ready to turn themselves around before they realize they are as low as they can possibly get.

Happier days will be here again, I promise. As always, thank you for reading.

CHAPTER 7, Part 1

The moment Peter glances up from his desk and sees Neal step out of the elevator with Elizabeth and starts towards his office, he puts down his papers and goes to meet them in the hallway before they can take another step, voice low.

"What is he doing here?" he demands to know. She smooths out a wrinkle in her dress, taking a deep breath to begin speaking, but Neal steps forward.

"Peter, it's on me. I asked her to bring me, there's something you need to know."

He explains the situation briefly in the hall, and they move to Peter's office to go over the details. Peter is sitting in his chair, holding two fingers to his temple, eyes shut as he processes the information.

"Wait, what does the rehab blackmailing patients have to do with the elderly pension fraud?" Neal shakes his head.

"I don't know, Peter, but we need to find out and stop this."

Peter nods. The information doesn't add up, there's a missing piece, and they need to find it. "How did you find all this out?"

Neal's voice is even and cool, nowhere near the shaky, tense tone it's possessed for the past few weeks. "I didn't break in, Peter, I swear. They asked me to leave, said they weren't accepting new patients, had me wait in an office and called the cops. They had archives, pages and pages of big names in New York, all paying blackmail to keep the fact they're in treatment out of the papers."

Peter is deep in thought. He's listening to his CI, but the possibility of this all being an alcohol-induced delusion of Neal's is very high: he's not stable and he's not rational.  
How can he trust anything this man is saying when all of his information was acquired during what must have been a black-out drunk uptown adventure?

Peter props his elbows up on his desk, lacing his fingers together. "Neal, I know what you think you saw, but I really can't take your word when your information was gathered while intoxicated. It's not concrete proof."

Neal visibly tenses, clenching his jaw. A slight shakiness is creeping back into his voice. "I know what I saw, Peter. This is happening and it needs to be stopped. I know what you think of what's going on in my personal life but it has nothing to do with this investigation."

"It does when you try to do your work after drowning yourself in Tanduay rum!"

Neal cuts him off, slamming a palm against his desk. "Dammit, Peter, listen to me-"

"You want me to listen to you? Come back to me when you have proof of evidence and you can keep yourself straight longer than an hour."

The younger man stops, just staring at Peter, unsure if he should respond to this wildly offensive accusation. It stings because of the painful words Peter has spoken, but it also stings because Peter no longer has any faith in Neal. Their entire relationship was built on this odd, messed up bond of trust they shared, and now Neal is no longer a _reliable source_. He exhales sharply, keeping his cool as he just stands and breezes out of the office and past Elizabeth, who stares after him, then looks back to her husband as he wanders out of the office and watches after Neal.

"What happened?!"

"I was honest, he got defensive." El crosses her arms and gives him her usual knowing look, and Peter sighs. "Okay, okay, I was kind of…I don't know if 'mean' is the word…"

"Peter, he was trying to help!"

Peter knows he was trying to help, Neal is always trying to help. He means well but when Peter knows damn well Neal is struggling just to handle himself, how is he supposed to expect the young man to be able to handle the cases the FBI throws at him?

Neal is slammed with the biting cold when he walks out the door, but ignores it and begins to wander, blending into New York's busy streets. After spending some time with just the light snowfall and his own thoughts, he makes a few calls and scores close by, then heads home with his prize.

He wanted to stop. As soon as he found out about the horrific blackmail his fellow addicts were enduring, he swore he would stop. He swore he'd find a way, but Peter's words burrowed deep into his heart and were strangling him. He needed to cut the rope. He needed the release.

During his walk home, he feels his heart pounding faster and faster. He's shaking, he feels sick, and by the time he arrives at 87 Riverside, he's desperate. After a few years of experience, he had learned not to rush, to take his time and make sure he does it right, but he couldn't wait. He doesn't even bother to sit, leaning against the counter as he grabs the end of his belt between his teeth, pulling it tight around his arm and looking for the vein, still standing. This was his mistake.

The initial rush hits him without incident, and he feels his heartbeat immediately slow to a relaxed, softened pace. He closes his eyes and exhales a long sigh of incredible strength, and before he even notices his balance shifting, he crumples to the floor, knocking his head sharply against the counter when he falls. When his mind shuts off completely, he no longer even feels the sting of the painful words spoken to him by the person he admires and trusts most in his life.

At the office, Peter is trying to decide if he should take Neal's information seriously. He has Diana do some investigating, and when she informs him several hours later that Neal's information checks out, he sighs, and asks her to get him on the phone.

"He's not answering, Boss. I've tried him three times now." He stands, pulling on his coat.

"That's alright, Diana. I'm heading out now, I'll stop by June's on the way home."

After a quick conversation with Hughes about their newly acquired information on the rehab, he heads out, spending the entire drive trying to figure out how to apologize to Neal for the things he said. When Peter knocks, and Neal doesn't answer the door, he lets himself in to find the young man unconscious on the floor with a syringe by his side, and Peter suddenly finds himself unable to remember any of the words he had prepared.

"Oh, my God." He kneels by the crumpled figure, searching for a pulse and audibly sighing in relief when he finds it. The room is silent, and he's not even sure if Neal is still breathing. He tilts his head, listening close and just barely catching the quick, shallow breaths Neal takes. He pulls Neal's body into the recovery position, checking his airways and lightly shaking him.

As each minute passes, Peter gets more and more frantic.

How long has Neal been unconscious? How could he possibly be so stupid? How could he jeopardize his freedom, his relationships, everything he's worked for at the FBI, and his whole life, for this? And why wouldn't he ask for help? Peter had no idea, absolutely no idea it was this bad. He knew his young friend was struggling, and he wanted to help, but Neal is a conman, and he's very careful about who he lets in. Peter is in a panic, and he's about to give up on waking the young man himself and call an ambulance when Neal gasps awake, coughing sharply, struggling to breathe and feeling nauseous. After getting over the shock of the event and gathering his thoughts, Peter carefully sits him up and lets him recover while he discards anything incriminating. He doesn't speak, Neal doesn't speak.

Once he's cleaned up the incredibly shocking evidence that Neal is way farther gone that he could have possibly imagined, he just stands over his CI and studies him. Neal doesn't look at him, he's still processing what's happening, and that Peter is here, and now knows what he's been trying to keep quiet for so long. Once he's regained his breath, he speaks with a voice barely above a rough mutter, keeping his eyes down. "Peter-"

His mentor cuts him off, crossing his arms. "Don't start, Neal." He pauses, and takes a breath, his voice a little softer. "You could have died." Neal just nods, still not looking up. He knows. "You should have told me. We could have gotten you help."

"I don't need help," Neal snaps. "I just… I just need to figure some things out."

"Yeah, okay, that might have worked before, but this? Neal, I can't just let this slide."

Neal nods, raising his eyebrows as he looks down. "I know." He pauses. "Back to prison, then?"

Peter presses his lips together, then sighs, kneeling next to the younger man. "No. We'll get you help, and you'll return to work. In that order."

Neal blinks. "You don't have to do that."

"I don't think you're a bad guy, Neal."

He smirks. "Just misguided?"

Peter shrugs. "If you want to put it that way." He stands, and gets a glass from the cupboard, filling it with water and handing it to Neal.

Neal murmurs a quiet thanks, reaching up to wipe the thin layer of perspiration quickly forming at his hairline, beginning to feel the intense come-down. Peter sees this, and purses his lips. "Are you alright?" Neal just nods, resting his head against the cabinet drawers of the counter, shutting his eyes to at least somewhat relieve the dizziness. "Let me see your arm," Peter offers, reaching out, but Neal recoils, shaking his head. The older man stops, raises his eyebrows, then turns, pacing slowly. When he stops, he glances over. He's back in boss mode, and his voice holds an authoritative tone. "How long, Neal."

"It doesn't matter."

"Neal. How long."

The young man exhales sharply and looks down, licking his lips before he speaks. "A while. After the Powell case. First started at 27, but had to stop when I went to prison." He runs a hand through his unruly hair. "I was in a lot of pain, Peter."

Peter nods. This makes sense now. Why didn't he see it? There was an immediate change in Neal after the incident in Powell's office. A few months later, when Kate died, it was almost like a withdrawal. He isolated himself. Didn't engage in his normal ways. "And this was your answer?"

He squeezes his eyes shut and rubs his temple, grimacing."That's all you get from me, I'm not talking about this."

"Neal."

Neal shakes his head, looking down. "Please just stop, Peter. I'll quit."

"You expect that to be easy? That you can stop, just like that?"

Neal shrugs. "Did it before. Didn't have a problem with it."

"You just stopped."

"I wanted to."

"No, you had to. You went to prison."

"I think I'll be just fine."

"Neal, opiates have consequences. They have withdrawals."

"That's not the problem."

This puzzles Peter. Neal doesn't believe in problems. He believes in roadblocks, but not problems. If there's actually a problem here, and Neal's readily admitting it, Peter's worried. He crosses his arms. "So what's the problem, then? You can just stop shooting up whenever the hell you want, so what's the problem? Beautiful women?" Neal snickers. "Your need to go against anything anyone ever tells you to do?"

"Peter-"

"Fine wine?" When he doesn't hear a response, Peter glances over his shoulder to see Neal staring off into space, frowning. "Wait, really?"

"Forget it, Peter."

"I'm not going to forget it, Neal."

Neal smirks. "I know."

A small smile creeps onto Peter's face. "That is so classic Caffrey."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

Peter forces a frown, trying to keep his face straight, but the mild, albeit darkly inappropriate humor of the situation keeps making his lips twitch upward. "You're just so nonchalant about it. 'Oh, okay, I was on heroin, but I'm just going to stop, I think. But I may need some help with-'"

Neal tosses up his hands. "Yeah, Peter, I get it. Wino. Lush. Let it out."

"Lush, let's go with lush. Suits you."

Neal looks down and smirks, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "You done?" Peter waves it away, still smiling, and Neal pushes himself up, approaching his handler, his voice even, arching an eyebrow at Peter. "Don't call me that." Peter immediately sobers, looking down and shoving his hands in his pockets. Neal sighs, and sips his water, turning and going back to the counter, facing the wall and leaning his elbows on the marble slab. "And please don't tell June." Peter nods, still looking down.

"I'm sorry, Neal." Neal just nods. "Look at me." The young man glances over his shoulder at Peter. "I will do whatever I can, to help you. Whatever you need."

Neal forces a weak smile. "Thank you."

Peter tilts his head, pressing his lips together. "You know this is going to be work. You're going to have difficulties. It'll be hard, but you have a support system. And you have to want it." He studies Neal, blinking when he doesn't react. "You do want it, right?"

Neal whirls around, leaning against the counter and crossing his arms, looking down. "I don't know what I want, Peter."

Peter sighs, looking down. He wonders if Neal knows how extremely difficult this is for him, too. As an FBI Agent, he has a lot of power. He also ultimately has the upper hand when it comes to Neal and Peter's relationship. If he wanted to, and he certainly wants to, he could demand that Neal get into an inpatient rehabilitation facility immediately, and not be permitted to leave until he was deemed recovered. He could also stick him right back in prison, if he refuses. But more than anything, Peter knows this isn't the way to handle the situation, especially when the situation involves Neal. It will be painful, it will be difficult, and it will be messy, but Peter knows the only way they'll get through this is in Neal's own time and way. It's just the way he works, and even if Neal did go to rehab now, his heart wouldn't be in it and as soon as he left he'd be a mess again. And Peter also knows Neal would never forgive him. Admittedly, Peter wouldn't forgive himself if anything happened to Neal. This is the only way.

"Okay. Well. You do what you need to do."

Neal raises an eyebrow. "You're not going to throw me in a rehab?"

"No, I'm not. This is something you have to work through. Call me when get clean, and we'll set up a meeting to evaluate if you're fit to return to work. Until then, you don't come into the office, and you don't work on any cases. Focus on yourself." This isn't the quickest way, Peter knows this won't guarantee Neal's immediate recovery, but he's confident that when it happens, it will be a genuine success. He knows damn well Neal cares too much about this job to let it go, and Peter truly believes that Neal wants it enough to quit. He also knows coddling the young man won't help, but God knows the next few days, weeks, or months without Neal helping on cases will be miserable, long, and exhausting. He pauses. "But I can't let the drugs go, Neal. That needs to stop. Right now." Neal looks down, bringing a hand to his temple, nodding. "I'm not going to force you to do anything, but if you do decide to seek help, or support, or some other option, you can come to us, and we have the resources to make that happen for you." He takes a breath. "Neal, I can't control what you do between now and when we meet. All I'll say is you will not be able to return to work if you cannot pass a comprehensive drug test and polygraph.

"Not alcohol testing?"

"Neal…" He hesitates, taking a moment. "We'll do that, too, but I don't expect this will be the last time you drink before you come back. I don't. But if I find out, and I will find out, that you continue to use drugs after we've had this talk, you _will _go back to prison. For a very long time." He pauses. "You take care of yourself." He brushes at his trousers, and pulls on his jacket. "Do you need anything, before I go?" Neal blinks, then just looks down, shaking his head. "You call me, if you need anything. Anytime." He moves towards the door, and Neal crosses towards the sofa.

"Peter." The Agent turns around upon hearing his name, glancing at Neal. "Thank you." Peter looks down, then just nods, before walking out the door.

Neal sinks to the sofa, head in his hands, with absolutely no idea of how he's going to get himself out of this one.


	8. Chapter 7, Part 2: Running Wild

A/N: As promised, here is the second half of yesterday's update. I included the last few lines of that update first here, just to help with context and keeping track.

The response to this has been overwhelming. This kind of writing is my form of expression for my own demons, and when I utilize characters I love and sympathize with, it's helpful. I honestly wasn't even going to publish it, because I assumed people wouldn't enjoy the dark places my mind goes when it needs release, but the responses that I have received has been humbling, to say the least. Love you all.

CHAPTER 7, Part 2

"Peter." The Agent turns around upon hearing his name, glancing at Neal. "Thank you." Peter looks down, then just nods, before walking out the door.

Neal sinks to the sofa, head in his hands, with absolutely no idea of how he's going to get himself out of this one.

He almost feels abandoned. One moment Peter was there, then he was gone. Finding Neal like that was a shock, he knows this, but for someone who is so interested in his personal life, why was Peter acting so cold? He says he wants to help, but leaves when Neal needs him most. Of course, this is what Neal gets for spending a lifetime pushing people away. He can handle himself.

He rakes a hand through his hair, then sinks into the sofa, studying his arm. The visible damage is minimal; it would appear as simple as a vaccination to the untrained eye. He shakes out his arm, and glances over at the bookshelf.

A book catches his eye. He moves to examine it closer: the spine reads, "Culture in the Age of Romance Along The Cote d'Azur". He retrieves the book, opens it, and leans against the edge of his bed, sipping at his water and feeling a slight shift in his soul.

In this moment, two things happen. The first, is Neal finds a brief moment of genuine happiness, something he hasn't felt in a very long time. The second, is the door swings open and someone storms into the apartment.

The noise shocks Neal, and he looks up from his book. Peter is standing there, taking heaving breaths. Everything about the way he looks, sounds, and holds himself is the complete polar opposite of the way things were when he left not 10 minutes ago.

"This is _not_ okay," he spits, furious.

The young man blinks, then furrows his brow and frowns, placing the book on the bed and standing. "Back so soon?" he ventures, unsure why his mentor is huffing and puffing on his door after walking out on him.

"Don't get smart, Neal. This is going to get figured out right now." He motions to the couch. "Sit."

"Peter, what in-"

"SIDDOWN." Neal widens his eyes and plops down onto the sofa, raising his hands in defense.

"Easy, I just-"

Peter adjusts his trousers and pulls up a chair, sitting across from Neal, his voice determined. "What is going on here, Neal. Tell me."

Neal blinks at this. "Is that a joke? You tell me, Peter! You find me here, verbally abuse me, then just tell me to figure it the hell out on my own?"

Peter exhales sharply, looks like he's about to speak, then sighs, clenching his jaw and looking down. "You are absolutely infuriating sometimes, you know that?"

"Peter, _what the hell_ is going on with you?"

The older man hesitates, then leans forward, elbows draped over his knees. "You scare the hell out of me like that, then just act like it's no big deal?"

"You acted like it wasn't a big deal, Peter! You walked out on me! Why didn't you call the police, Fed!?"

"_Because if I had, you'd lose the opportunity to turn your life and around and fix this._" He draws a deep breath. "Neal, if I had authorities here, they would have locked you away in a second. I can't pull rank on this one." He pauses, and looks down. "I know you're better than this. You've done a lot of things, Neal, but this isn't something you should be punished for. This doesn't make you a criminal. It makes you sick." His voice takes on a clipped tone on the last sentence, lacing his fingers together. "Do you want to be punished for this, or do you want help?"

Neal clenches his jaw, and looks down. "I'm sorry." Peter glares at him, pressing his lips together, then sits back in the chair. Neal takes a moment, then speaks, voice quiet. "It would have been easier for you to lock me up or cart me off to a treatment center."

Peter looks down, a small smirk on his face. "When have you ever been easy?" His tone sobers, and he looks up again. "It would have been easier for me. It wouldn't have done anything for you." Neal nods, looking at his hands. This whole thing is making him uncomfortable. Peter notices this, and tilts his head. "What?"

"You had every opportunity to turn me in and I betrayed your trust." Peter is struck by this, and nods.

"You did." He hesitates. "I don't fault you for that. I don't know what it's like to be where you are."

"I'll spoil it for you: it's not fun."

"I figured that." Peter glances around for a moment, then sighs, shifting in the chair. "I don't know how to help you, Neal."

"You don't have to. I'm not going to be your responsibility. The last thing I want to be is a burden." Peter narrows his eyes.

"Neal, you are _always _ a burden." He pauses. "But you're easily the most rewarding burden I've ever hired."

Neal smiles slightly, looking down. "I'll take that as a compliment."

"Of course you will." Peter smiles again, then studies Neal. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm doing alright. A little short on breath, a little dizzy. Nothing I can't handle." He shrugs. "It'll pass."

Peter doesn't know how to digest this information. For him, this was an incredibly traumatic experience. So traumatic, in fact, that he kind of just froze in the moment. Logic and rational thought were lost and he went into panic mode, unsure of how to deal with the most frightening and upsetting experience in his entire FBI career. He almost felt numb, and hardly remembers any of his actions or words towards the end of the event. He barely made it two steps outside, when the realization of what was happening hit him. That's when he whirled around and rushed back up the stairs.

It seems for Neal, however, that this was just routine. That's a scary thought in and of itself. And Neal doesn't bat an eyelash at an event like this.

"Neal?"

"Yeah."

"Don't take this the wrong way."

"What, Peter."

"Do you even want to recover?"

The question stuns Neal into silence for a moment. He honestly isn't sure. Of course he does. He wants his job back, he wants his life back. He's tired of taking every good relationship he's ever had and burning it to the ground.

But, at the same time, Neal feels hollowed out inside. And that feels worse than all of this.

"I don't know what I want."

"How can you not-"

"Just leave it alone."

Peter squeezes his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I don't understand this, Neal."

Neal cringes, and his voice is quiet. "I didn't ask for you to understand."

"Neal, I'm trying to help you-"

"So why did you leave!?" Neal nearly shouts. "Was that your idea of helping?"

Peter blinks, shocked. "I don't understand these things, Neal. I don't get this world, you're living in; I don't know how to navigate it."

"So you just left. You didn't know how to _navigate me_, so you decided to just not deal with it and act like this isn't happening?"

"NEAL." Peter shouts. He leans forward and rubs his palms over his knees, exhaling sharply. "This…this wasn't where I was going with this... I just don't know the right way to help you, Neal. This isn't my comfort zone-"

"You think working for the FBI is in my comfort zone?! It's _hell _ for a man like me, Peter!"

Peter presses his lips together, and looks down, inhaling sharply. "Hell?"

Neal slumps back against the sofa. "I didn't mean-"

"Yeah, you did." Peter stands, surveying the apartment, then fixing his gaze on Neal, eyes dark and voice low. "_I fear for your sanity,_ if you think working for the Bureau is more like _hell_ than this…" He gestures around the room. "This miserable mess you've made of your life."

Neal blinks as he takes this in, but other than that, doesn't respond. He just looks straight ahead, lacing his fingers together.

Peter stares at Neal, trying to figure out what the man is thinking, but when he gets nothing, he spits this parting word. "_I tried_, to help you, Neal. But I can only bail you out so many times."

"Goodnight, Peter." Neal doesn't move when he states this, rather simply. It's his dismissal.

Peter narrows his eyes, then exhales sharply, slamming the door behind him when he breezes out the door.


	9. Chapter 8, Part 1: Rough Water

A/N: As a brief note, I want to quickly say this chapter will also be in two parts. I'm enjoying taking the first half of one scene and making the end result appear one way, and flipping it in the second part. This was also a hard chapter, as it acknowledges the problem of having to go as far down as possible before picking oneself up again, known in the addiction community as 'rock bottom'. Rock bottom is the closest thing to a physical Hell most anyone, including myself, can experience, and I've been there and back again several times.

It's an uncomfortable thing to discuss, but I'm very grateful for the ability to be able to reflect these realities to a general public that often misunderstands these realities.

PS. It was really hard for me to keep reminding myself that tumbler is spelled with an E between L and R. I spend too much time on teh internets, methinks.

Chapter 8, Part 1

5 DAYS LATER

"Boss, I've got a lead on what's connecting the two."

Peter sighs, looking up from his computer. "Give it to me."

"Our 15 clients who don't pay contract fees are working for him."

"In what way?"

"Former patients."

"Who've crossed over to the dark side?"

"So it would seem. Or maybe they just don't want to pay blackmail anymore and don't mind subjecting other addicts to the same torture they endured." She drops a document on his desk and continues, while he flips through it. "The remainder of our elderly victims are former patients of the facility as well."

Peter glances up. "All of them?"

"All of them. They're still paying the blackmail in the form of these fraudulent pension over-payments."

Peter nods, studying the documents. "So it doesn't look suspicious."

"Exactly. They never reported the frauds because it meant risking their reputations. We have no way to prove it. No one is willing to release this information publicly in order to testify, all the victims feel it's too sensitive."

"And in terms of the financials, nothing we can get him on there."

"Nope. All voluntary payments."

Peter pauses, digesting this. After a moment, he exhales sharply. "Dammit, I wish we had Caffrey."

Diana just studies her boss for a moment, then crosses her arms. Her usual no-nonsense voice has taken a softer tone. "How is he?"

Peter sighs, looking down at his paperwork and tapping his pencil against his desk. He finally looks up. "I don't know. Haven't seen him in almost a week. He won't answer my calls, his door is always locked. June says she hasn't even seen him." He considers, then looks up at Diana, lowering his voice. "We didn't exactly part on good terms."

Diana raises a brow. "Should I do a little digging?"

Peter shakes his head at this. "Not yet. I need to give him a chance to come around. If we haven't gotten anywhere in, say, another week, I'll look into it. But if we start treating him like he's a case again, he'll spook. We'll lose him for good."

"Whatever you think is best, Boss."

It may have been for the best in the long run, but not in that moment.

While they stood pondering the well-being of their troubled consultant, Neal was at home, _attempting_ to deal. He kept himself locked up and isolated. There aren't words for the emptiness he feels inside when he wakes up every morning, head pounding, sick, and falling apart at the seams. There's no feeling of optimism, no hope for a fresh start with the new day. The first few days, he tried it: staying clean, going about his life with the ability to feel, hoping something would spark in him, and he'd snap out of this fog, prepared to handle whatever came his way because that's just what normal humans do. He kept himself busy, went out, worked on hobbies, and exercised, but it only took a few days for him to finally admit to himself that no matter what he did to try to feel alive again, it didn't change the fact that as long as he was sober, he felt dead inside. At least when he's drunk, it's a bit more manageable. Having all of the guilt and shame and regret with what he's done pulse through him every moment in waves of dull, aching pain… all it did was remind him how he got this way in the first place.

Neal knows this well enough. He knows all the tricks, all the explanations; the psychology behind all of this madness. Professionally speaking, he's equipped with everything he needs to fix this on his own, right now. But anyone who's been there will tell you, it doesn't matter if you have the tools, or know how it works. You could be someone who studied this for a living, it wouldn't change the fact that when you're there, you just can't bring yourself to care. Neal's thrown away everything good in his life, that's just what he does.

It's Monday night. Or maybe it's Tuesday. He isn't sure, but it doesn't really matter because he doesn't have a job to go to, anyone to ask, or any reason to care. Whatever it is, it's night, probably around 11:00, and Neal is sitting on the couch, just staring at the television. It's muted, and he isn't even sure what's on, he's not paying attention. He's just staring. He sips delicately at what must be his 8th whiskey, careful not to spill. The thing about drinking, is it doesn't actually make him forget all the things he wants to forget, it just makes it impossible to think. If he can't think, he can't think about her. Kate. She's gone, and it's his fault. He can't think about Peter. How he let him down, and how he let himself down. He can't think about all of the things he regrets, and that's the best he can do, given the situation.

It's the best thing he's got.

A knock at the door breaks him out of his trance, and he glances over. He doesn't get up, or respond, fearing who might be on the other side. He'll pretend he isn't home.

Silence, however, is not enough to convince Mozzie, who simply opens the door and wanders in when he feels Neal is taking too long.

"Neal, are you- Hey. Whoa." Mozzie pauses when he takes in the scene, then glances up to see Neal slouched on the sofa, just staring at the muted television. "What's….going on?" he asks, joining Neal on the couch. He grabs the remote and shuts off the TV, studying his friend. Neal sips at his drink, not responding. Still staring at the now blank television set. "Neal. Hey. Come on."

"What, Moz?" Neal finally manages, but it's low and rough, and a little sloppy.

"What's going on, man?" Neal presses his lips together, setting his drink on the coffee table and tilting his head back to rest it on the sofa, staring up at the ceiling. Mozzie watches this, then carefully reaches out, grabbing the tumbler and setting it on the floor next to him, out of Neal's reach or sight. "I think you've had enough for tonight." He pauses. "Neal?"

Neal glances over at him, and Mozzie is struck by his friend's evident exhaustion. "What."

Mozzie takes a moment, still slightly shocked, and he just looks down, unsure of how to approach this. "Talk to me, Neal."

Neal closes his eyes, tilting his chin down. "It's over, Moz." He exhales; a deep, low breath streaming out of the 'o' his lips have formed.

"What is?"

"Suit." Mozzie sits up a little straighter, shifting his whole body to angle towards Neal.

"What about him?"

"We're done. I quit."

"Always do sober what you said you'd do drunk, that'll teach you to keep your mouth shut."

Neal forces a weak smile. "Hemingway." He pauses. "You must stay drunk so reality cannot destroy you."

Mozzie holds up a finger. "Bradbury, and incorrect. Stay drunk on _writing_. Not…" he leans over to sniff what's in the tumbler he's confiscated from Neal. "…crap whiskey." He pulls a face, wrinkling his nose. "I expected better from you, Neal."

"S'all I've got." Mozzie glances around the room, spotting the half empty handle of cheap whiskey on the counter.

"That's it?" Neal nods, not looking up. "When did you get that?"

"Late last night."

Mozzie sighs. "Christ, Neal."

Neal just glances over, unamused. "Why are you here, Moz."

He shrugs. "I just wanted to check on you. It's been awhile. Glad to see you're doing so….well." Neal would roll his eyes, but he's starting to get ridiculously dizzy. He slumps a little lower, grimacing and shutting his eyes. Mozzie raises his eyebrows, but his voice is tinged with sadness. "Is it worth it?" Mozzie's talking about the abuse Neal is putting himself through, not the actual whiskey itself. Neal knows this.

Neal takes a moment to digest what Mozzie is asking, and he sighs. "No, but I work with what I've got." His words are slipping together, and he holds out a hand. "Give it back, Moz."

His friend shakes his head, crossing his arms. "Come get it yourself," he says, like a defiant child. Neal gives Mozzie a sideways glare, then shifts to stand, steadying himself. He had planned to step over Mozzie's legs propped up on the coffee table and retrieve his drink, but the simple act of standing causes his stomach to lurch, and instead he finds himself over the toilet, miserably sick. His head is spinning, his eyes are watering, and all he wants is just a couple more, just to knock him out for the night completely, but he can hear Mozzie's taunting voice from the sofa: "I told you!"

When he's done, he just shifts on the floor, leaning his back against the bathroom wall, exhaling sharply. He rolls up his sleeves, and brings up both hands to massage his temples. After a moment, he just sighs, leaning forward and holding his head in his hands.

Mozzie is standing in the doorway, watching his friend. "Neal?"

He glances up at Mozzie's figure looming over him in the doorway. "Yeah."

"You alright?"

Neal looks back down, noticing his hands shaking. He laces his fingers together. "Yeah. Yeah, m'just fine." He shuts his eyes and takes a deep breath, bracing himself, then pushes off the ground, lifting himself up, using the sink for support. He gets himself cleaned up, and staggers back over the couch, reaching over the arm and lifting the tumbler, sinking into the sofa and shutting his eyes as he gets his relief from the amber liquid. Mozzie is still standing in the bathroom doorway, but is now facing out, towards Neal. He shakes his head and looks down.

"You have a brilliant mind, Neal. It's a damn shame to see you waste it." Neal just throws an arm out, waving the issue out the window as he sips again, noticing almost immediately that the pounding in his head eases and his hands have stopped shaking. Mozzie studies Neal, then goes to sit next to him, also noting that the only thing relieving Neal's shakiness is the sips he takes. "It's really bad, isn't it." Neal glances over at Moz, then considers.

"Define 'bad'."

"You need to get some help, Neal."

Neal nods faintly, but it doesn't stop him from finishing off the last of what's in the tumbler, exhaling sharply as he sets the empty glass down. "I know."

"Will you?" Neal pauses, and looks over at his friend.

"I don't know." He crosses his arms, leaning his head back and shutting his eyes. When he speaks, his voice is even and resolute, despite how much he's slurring. "Go home, Moz. Don't worry about me."

Mozzie takes this moment to thoroughly study Neal, and the way he's acting. He takes in his body language, the tone with which he speaks, and how he's holding himself. What he draws from this is that his friend is sad, but even more than that, incredibly scared. There's some part of him, deep inside, that still values his life enough to be terrified of what he's doing to himself. Mozzie stands, adjusting his coat. "Neal. It's going to be okay," he reassures him, just hoping it's true. Neal just nods.

Mozzie takes one more look at Neal, then goes to take his exit. Before he leaves, though, he makes sure to grab the handle of whiskey off the counter, dumping it on the side of the road when he exits June's home.

Once Mozzie is gone, Neal lets some time pass, before the shaking becomes too much to handle and he feels the fog start to lift from around his brain. He stands, raking a hand through his hair and clumsily wandering over to the counter, his heart sinking when he realizes what Mozzie's done.

_Damn it, Mozzie._

All he needed was one or two more, just enough to knock him out. After all of this, he just wants sleep, but now he's shaking and tense and he knows damn well he won't be sleeping at all tonight.

_Okay, think Neal. You know how to get yourself out of situations like this._ Except when he's trying to get himself out of a situation, he usually isn't hammered. He can't think, his head hurts, and the uncontrollable shaking shows no signs of stopping. He swings open the medicine cabinet in the bathroom, audibly sighing in relief when he spots it. Mouthwash.

It almost feels dirty to do. This is the lowest of the low, this is only for the people who are _really _fucked up and desperate, but Neal tries not to think about that as he staggers over to his bed, laying back and taking long pulls from the plastic bottle, wincing at the taste. In this moment, none of that matters. After some time, the shaking subsides, and he sets the bottle on the end table, curling up in bed as the fog settles over him again, wrapping him up like a warm blanket. Protecting him, as he drifts off to blissful unconsciousness, just these words repeating themselves in his head, over and over:_One step forward, two steps back._


	10. Chapter 8, Part 2: Safer Water

It's been maybe a week. Maybe more, maybe less. Neal is curled up on the couch, just staring into space. He's not asleep, he's not awake. It's some sort of nightmarish limbo he's stuck in: he's so, so tired, but he can't sleep, and he just wants to go get his life back, but he can't muster up the strength to stand. A call ringing through his phone is what yanks him out of his trance, and he reaches for the phone on the coffee table. MOZZIE. He sighs. Mozzie's been calling for a few days now, but Neal just can't bring himself to answer, opting to keeping his door locked. He tosses the phone back on the table, letting the voicemail get it. He holds a hand to his head, and sighs, then finally pulls himself off the sofa, wandering to the shower to get ready. For what, he's not sure, but it's automatic. It's ritualistic. It used to be what pumped him up for the day, his warm-up, to get him in the zone. Now it's a mundane series of steps, but he still does it every day anyway. He goes through the motions, the same way he did before all of this, but it's half-hearted and pointless. He doesn't have anywhere to go. He doesn't have anyone to see. He doesn't have anything to do.

In the shower, while he's letting the hot water sting as it rushes over him, he's suddenly slammed with raw, organic emotion. It's a shock to his system: the feeling is pure and untainted; not the dull, far away echoes of emotions he was once able to feel that grew weaker over time with every drink he took. It feels as though someone has wrapped their fists around his heart, squeezing and wringing it dry. He sinks to the floor, leaning against the tiled wall and pulling his arms up over his head, guarding his face as the completely foreign and odd feeling of tears forming and crawling down his features begins.

He isn't sure of the last time he actually cried. It's just not something he does, it's not how he reacts to things. But God knows he's not himself right now and he welcomes the hot tears mixing with the hot water from the shower-head, just letting himself feel this intense emotion he's been trying to keep numb for so long.

He doesn't want this anymore. He can't live like this anymore. It needs to stop.

This realization is overwhelmingly emotional for Neal, knowing he's so far gone and completely out of control, something he tries to never let happen. Once he's sure he has no tears left, he just stays there for a while, letting the water wash over him. It's nearly a spiritual experience: the hot water baptizing him into what he hopes is new life. He pulls himself up again, shutting off the water and grabbing a towel, rubbing at his now-sore eyes.

He gets himself ready, pausing every few minutes to take a pull from the bottle on the counter. He doesn't want to, he hates this, but it's all he knows anymore. He soaks himself in wine and whiskey in an attempt to put out the fire in his heart. By the time he realized the alcohol was only feeding the flame, he was too far gone.

By the time he's dressed and ready to go, he's already halfway drunk. He glances at his watch as he pulls on his bag and saunters out the door, saying goodbye to June as he goes, trying to maintain an acceptable public appearance. He's not sure where he's going or why, but he just needs to get outside. He enjoys walking, especially with no particular place to go, but eventually decides upon the local market. Maybe he'll even buy food.

Neal isn't sure he believes in fate anymore. Or Freud, for that matter, but he feels as though he's Freudian slipped on a banana peel when he finds himself standing in front of the tall building that houses the Bureau, especially when he had intended to stop at the store to restock on the things that mattered most: shaving cream, aspirin, and wine.

He isn't sure how he got here, he doesn't remember walking this way, but this is where Neal suddenly finds himself. The reflection of the skyline in the big glass windows grabs his attention, and he whirls around, surveying the buildings, before he sinks down onto the bench outside the big glass doors, resting his head in his hands. After a moment, he takes a discreet pull from the flask, as a preventive measure. He doesn't bother putting it away, just loosely holding it in his hands as he shuts his eyes, thinking about whether or not it's too late for him to really try.

Neal stays this way for some time, when a voice brings him back to reality. "Neal?" His heart sinks when he looks up and sees Peter looming over him. The older man had just breezed out the front door, on his way to lunch, when he caught sight of the destroyed young man sitting there alone. "What are you doing here, Neal. You dropped off the map, you had me worried." Neal nods, looking down, then stands, his eyes level with Peter's. Peter just studies him for a moment, then sighs, glancing at his watch, his voice tinged with disappointment. "You're drunk already?" Neal avoids Peter's gaze for a moment, then looks up, opening his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. He pauses, then tries a second time, but his voice catches, and suddenly he's crying again. He quickly ducks his head down, trying to keep Peter from noticing, but he isn't fast enough.

Peter blinks, then his face softens and he just reaches out, pulling Neal against his chest into a protective, father-like hug. Neal doesn't fight it. He just lets himself feel all of these awful, terrible emotions swarming through his body all at once, and despite the horrific pain these feelings cause him, it's the first time, in a very, very long time, that he's actually felt alive. To him, that's worth anything, no matter how much pain it causes him. After spending so much time keeping himself numb, he realizes this simple fact: in truth, he'd rather feel pain than nothing at all.

"Neal. Neal, come on. It's alright." He just lets him let it out. When the tears finally subside, and Neal just stays there taking deep, shaking breaths, Peter pulls back, carefully reaching to pull the flask from Neal's hand and holding him at arm's length. "Let's talk." He guides him to the bench, where Neal sits, lacing his fingers together and looking down. Silent tears still cut paths down his face, but he doesn't bother to clear them away. Peter just studies his friend. "Why now. Why'd you come back. We thought we'd lost you, for good."

It's silent for a moment. Neal didn't come to the Bureau on purpose. This wasn't what he was planning to do, but he has to. It takes Neal a second to gather all the strength he has so he can speak the words. "I need help, Peter."

Peter pauses, and nods, looking down, digesting this. He knows it took a lot out of Neal to drop his pride and admit he was at the end of the road. "We can get you help."

Neal looks up, focusing on Peter. He wants to make sure this man understands he means this, regardless of the alcohol swimming through his veins. He speaks with conviction, despite the slurred words and rough voice. "I don't know what to do. I just can't do this anymore." He pauses, looking down. "I can't."

"I know, Neal." He places a firm hand on his friend's shoulder. "It'll be fine." Neal just nods, keeping his eyes on the ground. Peter hesitates, then stands. "Stay here. I'm making a call." Neal nods again, staring into space, and Peter wanders a few feet away, dialing Elizabeth and glancing over his shoulder to keep an eye on Neal. His face falls as he studies the man, watching him lean back, searching the sky, before leaning forward and dropping his head in his hands again.

"Hi, honey," El's voice says, cheery.

"Hi, hon, listen, I've got Neal here."

She immediately takes a different tone. "Oh. Oh, is he alright?"

Peter looks over at Neal, who's now standing, nervously pacing in small circles. "No, he just showed up, he's drunk. He says he needs help."

"That's a good thing, isn't it?"

"Yeah, yeah, it is. I just don't know what to do from here. Every time I try talking to him, we both just lose it."

"Take him to see Elaine?" Peter sighs. Elaine is the counselor stationed in their building, available to employees who are struggling with personal issues or shock as a result of events from the job. "Not only does he need a professional, he needs someone who maybe…" She hesitates.

"What, El."

"You care about him, Peter. Probably more than you realize. And he cares about you. Your emotions get in the way."

"Yeah." He sighs. "Yeah, you're right."

Peter can hear Elizabeth's smile. "I know." She pauses. "You're a good man, Peter. You're doing the right thing. You may have saved a man's life today."

This is why he called Elizabeth. This is what he needed to hear. "Thank you, hon."

"Of course, hon."

He hangs up, looking over at Neal, who's back in his original place on the bench, hands in his lap, bouncing a knee, staring at the sky. Anxious.

Peter approaches, and Neal looks up, raising his eyebrows.

"Everything okay?" Peter asks.

Neal looks at his hands. "As okay as it can be." He eyes the flask in Peter's hand. "Can… I have that back now?"

Peter sighs, shoving it in his coat pocket. "No, let's go upstairs." Neal pushes himself up, but hesitates, not following Peter.

"Can we not do it here?" Peter turns around, raising an eyebrow.

"Why not? Come on, there's someone you should meet."

Neal shifts, and rolls up his shirt sleeves. He has too much pride to let himself be seen in this state by the rest of the WCU. "I can't."

Peter sighs. "You said you needed help, I'm offering you help."

"I know, I just…" He pauses, and leans in, lowering his voice. "Can't we do this somewhere else?"

Peter sighs, rolls his eyes and glances down. "Fine. Coffee shop. I'll set it up." He calls Diana, making the request to have Elaine at a nearby coffee shop within the half hour. He tells Diana he'll be out for the rest of the day, and if she has any questions, to ask Johnson with Secondary Senior Staff.

Their walk to the coffee shop is less than eventful. Neal is silent the whole way, stressed and paranoid that he is so obviously intoxicated in public at noon. He shoves his hands in his pockets and keeps his eyes down. Peter just glances over at him every few minutes, and when they finally arrive, Neal sits and Peter orders the drinks.

When Peter returns, Neal is drumming his fingers against the table.

"What'd you get me?"

"Cream, no sugar." Neal nods, still drumming his fingers and glancing around every few minutes. Peter raises an eyebrow, then sighs. "Would you stop? You look like a meth addict."

Neal stops, blinks, raises his eyebrows, then looks down. "Sorry."

Peter sighs. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean that-"

"Forget it." Neal laces his fingers in his lap, glancing down, and bouncing his knee. He briefly bites a lip. "Peter, come on."

"Come on, what?" Neal nods to Peter's coat pocket, still bouncing. Peter widens his eyes, not quite angry but definitely annoyed, his voice stern. "You said you wanted help-"

Neal cuts him off. "I DO. I do." He lowers his voice. "Peter..." He hesitates. "I can't just stop."

Peter studies the anxious young man. It terrifies him and his heart pounds at the thought of the severe hold this has over his genius CI. He sighs again, looking down, then pushes himself up when the drinks are called. He brings them back over, unscrews the flask, and tilts a small measure into Neal's cup of coffee before replacing the lid and sliding it over to Neal's side of the table. He looks away as he tucks the flask back into his chest pocket, and Neal murmurs a quiet thanks, swirling the cup before taking a gulp, exhaling shakily as soon as he pulls the cup from his lips.

Peter studies him, then sighs, nodding towards Neal's shaking hands. "That bad, huh?" Neal blinks at him, then just looks down, pulling his hands into his lap and not responding. Peter looks away, murmuring under his breath. "I'll take that as a yes…"

Now Peter's mentally kicking himself. He has absolutely no idea how to handle this. What's appropriate, what's not. What he should say to make Neal feel better, and what crosses the line into patronizing. If you ever needed help breaking down a mob ring or cracking code in an art theft, Peter's your man. But the past few weeks have made him realize he's really not that much of a people person. Sure, he gets along with them, but when it comes to understanding them, he's lost. The awkward moment is interrupted when a leggy, dark skinned woman breezes through the door, greeting Peter. "And you must be Neal," she smiles, extending a hand. Neal stands, flashing a charming smile and shaking her hand.

"I must." He pauses. "I'm afraid I didn't get your name."

She smiles at him, her bright white teeth contrasting against her deep skin. "I'm Elaine, I'm a counselor with the Bureau." She takes her seat across from Neal, and Peter pulls his chair over slightly to make room. "What can we help you with?"

Neal hesitates. He looks down, drumming his fingers on the table. Peter tilts his head towards Neal slightly, anticipating a response, but nothing comes. He leans back in his chair, finally breaking the awkward silence. "Drinking. He needs help with his drinking."

At this, Neal shoots Peter a sharp glare, lifting the coffee cup to his lips again and sipping. Elaine doesn't look at Peter, just keeps her eyes fixed on Neal. "Agent Burke, if you could please let Neal answer the questions."

Peter raises his eyebrows and pushes back in his chair, balancing it on the back legs. Neal's still looking down, swirling the coffee cup over the table like it's a glass of wine that needs to breathe.

It takes Neal a moment, and he sips from the cup again, but he finally speaks, keeping his eyes focused on the coffee cup. He's tripping over his words a bit, mostly because he's figuring this sentence out as he goes. "It's become…a way bigger part of my life than I ever anticipated."

"Has it become unmanageable?"

Neal glances up before he speaks. He's talking to Elaine, but his eyes are fixed on Peter. His voice wavers a bit when he speaks. "Yes."

"Have you recently used?" He glances back down at his shaking hands, and wraps both of them around the coffee cup, trying to steady them.

"Yes."

"You don't sound happy about that."

Neal finally makes eye contact with her, this time keeping his voice even and smooth, as he fixes the knot of his tie at the base of his neck. "I'm not."

She pauses, and just studies him for a moment, then looks down at her legal pad. "We can help you, Neal."

He sighs, sipping. "I would appreciate that."

Peter is just watching all of this, debating if he's in a dream. This feels unreal, like some sick, twisted prank. The one man he spent a quarter of his FBI career chasing eventually became the closest thing he's ever had to his own son, and he knows he loves him like one. This is more painful than anything he's had to deal with at the Bureau.

Neal just keeps his eyes glued to the table as he brings the cup to his lips again, bouncing his knee. Elaine is taking a moment, scrawling some things down on her legal pad. And Peter just studies Neal. The young man lifts the cup to his lips again, only to find it empty, and winces. Peter raises his eyebrows, suspiciously feeling his coat pocket just to be sure the flask is still there.

"How long has this been going on?" Elaine finally asks, looking back up at Neal.

He nervously glances over at Peter, hesitating, then ducks his head down, praying Peter doesn't put two and two together. "Just over a year." He keeps his eyes down. He can feel Peter's angry stare boring into him, and he just avoids it.

"A year? This has been going on for a year, and you never told me?" Peter scoffs. "What, did you hit the liquor store the minute I bailed you out of prison?" Peter accuses, trying to keep his voice even, but emotion is getting in the way and he's all over the place.

Neal keeps his head down, repeatedly tapping the coffee cup against the table, clenching his jaw, and Elaine sits up a little straighter.

"Okay, okay. Agent Burke, I understand your feelings here. They are perfectly valid, but speaking to Neal in that way is not going to help him."

Peter exhales sharply, just glaring at Neal. He's a federal agent, damn it, not a disobedient child. If anyone's the disobedient child, it's Neal.

"Neal, are you ready to commit to sobriety?" she ventures, studying him.

He takes a long pause before he speaks, gathering his thoughts. "I…want to."

"You're not confident you can?"

He sighs, and looks away. "I don't know, this…I don't know."

Peter pushes himself up out of the chair at this, glaring down at Neal. "I'll be outside. When you're ready to look at this the way it is, let me know." He storms out the door, and Neal just watches after him in stunned silence.

Elaine sees this, and her voice lowers slightly. "That's what caring looks like. He's upset, but it's only because this is very difficult for him."

Neal nods. He knows this. He finds someone who cares deeply about him, and has provided him with the opportunity for a better life, and he's fucked it up. He drums his thumb against the side of the table, leaning back in the chair. "I let him down."

"You let yourself down, Neal. We can build you back up again. Starting now, if you're ready."

He inhales sharply. It all comes down to this. He glances outside, studying Peter, who's just pacing back and forth, fuming. Neal looks back up at Elaine. "Yeah. Yeah, let's do this."


	11. Chapter 9: Midnight to Midnight

A/N: Helloooo friends. I present to you Chapter 9. This chapter does contain a bit more dialogue than I usually do, primarily because Neal is navigating meeting a new person and those first moments are essential to setting the tone for the entire relationship. Thanks for your patience with the last update, something glitched and it was a pain in the bum. Hopefully this will tide you over until next week's new episode since they're taking a break tomorrow for the State of the Union. :( Love to all!

Chapter 9

The waiting room is crowded, but quiet. It's like a human zoo with the volume turned down; people of all shapes and sizes and levels of hygiene are scattered throughout, partaking in various animal-like activities that Peter wasn't necessarily aware were legal or socially acceptable to do in public. He just stands in the corner, surveying them, and waiting. It's uncomfortable and he wants to leave, but he needs to wait. He has to be here for Neal.

He sits in that waiting room for what feels like a year but in reality is probably more like 20 minutes. Still, in Peter's opinion, it's entirely too long. The thought is interrupted when Neal exits the patient door, looking very clearly emotionally exhausted as he heads toward Peter.

"So? How'd it go?" he ventures, placing a hand on Neal's shoulder and guiding him out the door.

"As good as it could have gone." He holds up a few small papers in his hand. "I need to go fill this."

Peter nods as they climb into the car. "We can do that. What is it for?"

Neal studies the name, frowning at the paper. "Tegretol?"

Peter blinks, glancing over at Neal. "An anticonvulsant?"

Neal shrugs. "Doc says it's a better option than benzos, given my history with other drugs."

Peter frowns, but nods. After a moment, he glances over at Neal again. "Does he think seizures are a risk?"

"Not really, but it's better safe than sorry. It's for anxiety…" He glances down at his hands, which quiver as they grip the prescription. "…and the shaking."

Peter nods, then pauses. "So what'd the good doctor have to say?"

Neal hesitates. "Just… that I'm fortunate I had you and El, and Moz, because many people in my situation don't have the support system to get them on the right track. And he gave me recommendations for a psychologist, and suggested I keep myself busy and maintain a regular schedule of AA meetings."

Peter doesn't look at Neal when he speaks, but considers. "We already have a psychologist, that's what Elaine is for." He glances over at Neal. "How do you feel about going to the meetings?"

Neal shifts, considering. "I don't know, I don't really see myself as a 12-Stepper kind of guy. Tons of people get through this without AA all the time, it's just a matter of having the right tools and using them."

Peter smiles, proud. He's _so _ incredibly, unbelievably proud of Neal in this moment, but it's only the first day. "Atta boy."

Neal glances out the window. "Peter, why are we going to your house. I told you I would be fine."

Peter nods, pressing his lips together. "This was the deal. You said you wanted to continue your work with us, you can do that on the condition that you stay with El and I for the duration of treatment, Neal."

Neal sighs, leaning back against his head rest and closing his eyes. "Yeah."

"I'm glad to see you want to continue your work. But you need to acknowledge that there are certain liabilities and risks that come with employing someone in treatment at the FBI. I need to guarantee you'll be clean when you're at work."

Neal just nods, looking out the window. "I know. Thank you."

Peter nods. When they pull up in front of the house, after picking up Neal's prescription, Peter helps him bring his things inside. El is sitting at the table when they open the door, and she leaps up when she sees Neal, going to him and pulling him into a close hug. He almost doesn't know how to react at first, but relaxes, returning the hug and wearing a weak smile.

"Oh, it is so good to see you, Neal." She pulls back, holding him at arm's length and studying him. "I am so, so proud of you."

It's too much attention for Neal, if such a thing exists. Perhaps it doesn't, but this is definitely the _wrong _kind of attention. He doesn't like being coddled and fawned over like a child, and he certainly doesn't like being patronized. But he knows that isn't El's intention, she's pure and genuine.

"Thanks, El," he mutters, rolling up his sleeves.

Peter is putting things away, getting himself situated, and so he calls out to El as he navigates the house. "Neal is on a four-day, _mandated _ medical leave, so he can dry out." Neal cringes at the wording, pulling up a chair at the table. "After that, he'll be assessed, and will return to work. Continuing treatment, and staying with us, of course, until that treatment is complete."

Neal exhales sharply, drumming his fingers against the table. El glances at him. "How are you feeling about all this, Neal?"

He considers, then glances over at her. "I'm just ready to get this over with and get my life back."

She smiles, but it's tinged with sadness. "You will. I know you will."

He provides a weak smile in return, looking down. Peter appears in the entry way to the kitchen, studying Neal. "Neal, don't forget to take your meds."

Neal doesn't look at Peter, but raises his eyebrows, reaching into the bag and shaking a pill into his palm, tossing it in his mouth. He swallows, and looks up at Peter with a mischievous grin. "Already did."

Peter smirks, shaking his head. "I'm gonna have to watch you like a hawk, aren't I."

Neal just nods, smiling and looking quite pleased with himself.

The reality is, though, that he's not. He's uncomfortable. He can't think, he can't focus, he's jittery and clammy. He's in Peter's home, disrupting his family, and subjecting him to Neal's imminent misery. This is crossing way too many lines.

Later that evening, the three of them are sitting together around the television. It's awkward, and kind of feels like dinner with the in-laws. Peter is watching the game with undivided attention, and Neal is helping El with her crossword. Peter stands, going to the kitchen for a moment.

"How are you feeling?" El asks when she looks over at Neal, her voice quiet.

Neal considers for a moment, studying the glass. "I'm alright. Don't feel great, but I'm alright."

She nods. "How do the meds feel?"

He shrugs. "Still jittery. Not as much, though."

El presses her lips together. "That's good, Neal."

He nods, sipping his water. He's clammy and sticky and hates this, but he's here with the people he knows he can't let down.

Peter wanders back in and plops onto the sofa, chomping on the deviled ham Elizabeth prepared. "Did you call Elaine?"

Neal leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees once he places the water back on the coffee table. "I did. We're meeting tomorrow at 10. Coffee shop."

Peter nods. "Good. Good."

_Good _ isn't necessarily the word Neal would use to describe this, but he doesn't say that. El and Peter stay with him in the living room until around 10, and then he's left alone. They asked if he needed anything before they went to bed, but Neal doesn't really consider this is a situation in which he has the right to ask anything more of these people.

He's stretched out on his back on the sofa. The blanket El left on the coffee table is crumpled on the floor; it feels like it's 105 degrees and Neal is doing everything he can to alleviate the intense burning heat running through him. The knowledge that this is a good thing; this is the toxins leaving his body- it does nothing for him in this moment. It's still miserable.

The television is still on, but he muted it when the noise was too distracting, it just made him irritated. A small cloth he ran under the sink is laying across his forehead, and he just keeps his eyes shut, trying to keep his center when he feels like he's about to fall off the edge of the earth.

It stays like this, more or less, for most of the night. In between occasional glasses of water, reading from the small collection of books Elizabeth keeps on the shelves, and watching the television with the volume way down low, Neal has just been tossing and turning. He can't sleep. All he wants is to sleep. The body he's personally abused for so long is working overtime just trying to figure out how to get back to normal again, and it's churning and turning its gears just trying to flush all of the toxins out. And all he wants is to just take a break and rest. This happened often to Neal, even before he drank. He hadn't begun poisoning his body yet but his mind was constantly churning, sifting through all of the awful memories and pain. Once he started though, it quickly became the only way he could sleep. It was like forcing a computer to turn off without going through all of the proper steps: he drank himself to sleep, and would wake up the next morning with a reminder that he hadn't shut down properly, and that this might later cause complications in basic functioning. It did.

At 3 AM, when he finally does get to sleep, he immediately wants to take it all back. If he thought he was sweating before, he hadn't experienced waking from the horrific, brutal night terrors that consumed his mind. Never has he experienced such realistic, torturous dreams, and truthfully, he's terrified to find out his mind is capable of bringing him to such dark places when he sleeps. He jolts awake at around 4:45, and the thought of falling asleep again and subjecting himself to the horrific dreams is enough to keep him awake from then on out.

By 6:30, Peter has wandered downstairs to find Neal sitting in an armchair in the corner of the room, leaning forward with his elbows to his knees and his head in his hands. Peter is cautious.

"…Neal?"

The younger man lifts his head, and in his sleep-deprived state it takes him a moment to focus on what's in front of him and register that Peter has asked him something.

After a moment of groggy bewilderment, he swallows and rakes a hand through his hair. "What?"

Peter shifts, leaning sideways against the wall as he studies Neal.

"Good morning. I just wanted to see how you were doing."

Neal shakes his head, looking down, then pulls himself up and begins to clean up the living room, starting with folding up the blankets.

He almost scoffs, but it's weak and guttural. He doesn't look at Peter when he speaks, focusing on the blankets. "I'm not doing great, Peter, I'll tell you that."

Peter just nods, shoving his hands in his pockets and looking down. "I'm sorry to hear that. Did you sleep okay?"

"Got maybe two hours at most."

Peter exhales sharply, going to the kitchen to begin brewing some coffee. "That's not nearly enough."

Now Neal delivers a genuine chuckle, but it's less than half-hearted. "You're telling me." He fluffs up the pillows and carefully places them back on the sofa, reaching up to clear the perspiration from his brow. Peter wanders back out into the living room with a cup of coffee for himself and a glass of orange juice for Neal. He sits on the couch, tying his tie.

"Did you take your vitamins?" Neal just nods, sipping at the juice and opening the paper, glancing through it. Peter just watches him for a minute, then sighs, joining him at the table with a bowl of cereal. "Can I get you anything for breakfast?"

Neal looks up at Peter, speaking with what can only be described as unintentional condescension. "I can maybe keep down a cup of applesauce right now, Peter. Better not risk it." He just looks back down at his paper, and Peter raises his eyebrows, speaking simply. Matter of fact.

"We have applesauce," he offers.

Neal scoffs, shaking his head, but doesn't give the subject any more attention. Peter sighs again.

"What is it, Neal? Talk to me."

Neal exhales sharply, then looks up at Peter, putting down the paper. He focuses hard on Peter's eyes, and tries to keep his voice under control, but it shakes and wavers with emotion. "I'm sorry. Not your fault. I'm just irritable." He looks down, then shakes his head. "I'm sorry. You and El have been so incredible, thank you."

Peter just nods, studying Neal. "Do you have any idea how proud of you I am, for doing what you're doing?"

A small smile plays on Neal's lips, and he looks down, in a display of what can only be described as the closest thing to embarrassment Neal Caffrey is capable of. "I don't think you've mentioned it, actually," he jokes, finishing his juice and folding the paper. "I'm gonna shower, are you heading out soon?" Peter nods, his mouth full of cereal. He swallows.

"I'll probably be gone when you get out. What else do you have planned for the day?"

Neal shrugs, considering, tucking the paper under his arm and lacing his fingers together to keep them from shaking. "Meeting with Elaine at 10, may go see Moz at some point. Check in with the doc tonight. Hitting the gym later."

Peter nods, raising his eyebrows. "Sounds like a busy day."

Neal hesitates, then just tilts his head. "Eh."

"Whaddaya mean, 'eh'?"

"I'd rather be at work."

"You'll be at work soon enough. Just focus on yourself."

Neal nods, looking down. "Thanks, Peter." He takes his exit, and Peter just stares after him, before returning his attention to his cereal.

By the time Neal gets upstairs and has the shower running, he's jittering like he's had a gallon of June's espresso. He's hot and clammy and his entire body feels like a jackhammer. He brushes his teeth as the water warms up, dropping the toothbrush in the sink twice as a result of his tremor-induced clumsiness. Once he's done, he grabs the handle of the drawer to put away his toothbrush and toothpaste. The deep, cherry colored wood of the drawers squeaks when he pulls them open. Warning. Don't go in here.

He drops the hygiene utensils in the drawer, but not without noticing the value sized bottle of bright green mouthwash laying there, innocent. He picks it up, studying the label. He has to squint to read it, his head is killing him and he has trouble focusing. He wants it. He needs it right now, so bad, and Peter's leaving soon anyway. He could get away with it. He glances over at the bathroom door, making sure it's locked, then goes to pull the plug on the shower, switching it from faucet to shower-head. The bottle is screaming his name. It's innocent, it won't hurt him. It's just liquid. It's just mouthwash. It's clean. Good for him.

But Neal knows better than that. He brings a palm to his head, pressing slightly to alleviate the pounding headache. His other hand shakes as it grips the bottle. He inhales slowly, and exhales sharply.

If you asked him what happened next, he honestly couldn't tell you. The moment seems to be erased from memory. One moment he was holding the bottle, shaking uncontrollably, wanting nothing more than to drain the whole thing. The next, there's a crack in the mirror and shards of a ceramic cup littered across the floor. The empty bottle is in the garbage bin, the bottom of the sink is lightly stained green, and Neal is on the floor of the shower, knees up, head in his hands, arms thrown up to protect his head from the hot water assaulting him. The skin around the knuckles of his right fist is torn and dots of crimson bubble up from the wounds and melt into the running water, snaking down his arm and into the drain. He's sober and he doesn't want to be, but he has to be. He has to, or he won't make it out of this alive.

+++++++++++++

"Neal."

"Elaine."

They nod to each other, and she shifts in her chair, crossing her legs. She eyes the bandage wrapped around his knuckles, but doesn't say anything about it. Neal just keeps his hands folded in his lap.

"How are you today, Neal?"

Neal shrugs. He's bouncing a knee, and his hands aren't staying still either, but he manages to keep his voice calm and cool. "Not dead yet."

She doesn't show any visible reaction to this, but simply asks him: "Did you expect you would be?"

Neal scoffs, smiling, and looking up at the ceiling. "Nah. I think I'm gonna be around for a while."

She smiles at this. "That's good. How are the physical symptoms?"

He sobers, looking down at his hands. "Not great."

"Is the medicine helping?"

"I think so. I'm not having seizures."

"The doctor said you were at a mild risk for seizures."

"Haven't had any. Just the shaking. That's still really bad."

"The Tegretol should help with that."

Neal shrugs. "It is, it's a little better. Just still bad."

"Are you sleeping?"

"No."

She hesitates, and leans back in her chair.

"Neal, can you talk to me about your family?"

"I don't have a family, Elaine."

"Everyone has a family."

He shrugs. He doesn't look hurt, he just sates this simply. "I don't."

She nods, then pauses, then nods again. "If I were to ask right now, why you started drinking, what would you say?"

He considers for a moment, then sits up a little higher in the chair, and fixes his eyes on Elaine's. "'Young people drink because they think life is great. Old people drink because they know it's not,'" he quotes. She shifts.

"Are you old?"

He shrugs. "Older than I was."

"What's wrong with this life?"

He shifts, crossing his left ankle over his knee, flashing the anklet. "Everyone I love leaves. And I'm not exactly in a profession where I can easily go talk about my problems."

"It was an escape."

"An outlet," he corrects.

"A poisonous outlet."

"I didn't want to feel anymore."

"Is that what you want now?"

"No."

Quiet. The way they can bounce off each other like this is brilliant. Neal very rarely finds someone who has the right combination of intelligence, people skills, and clever wit to be on par with his come-easy conversation. It's unfortunate he's encountering her genius in this setting.

"So, what do you want, Neal?"

He considers. "I want to be able to feel, and be able to handle it. I want to let myself live my life, with whatever comes, and be able to just take it and work through it."

"How did you cope with those feelings and problems before you drank?"

He shrugs. "I didn't. Like I said, my line of work doesn't really allow for discussion."

"So you just let it build up."

"I did."

"You snapped."

"I did."

They both pause. Cosmic moment. She looks down at her papers, and Neal shifts and adjusts his hat. "I think that's good for today, Neal. Next time we talk, we're going to discuss coping methods, okay? Think about that before our next meeting."

He nods, and stands, shaking her hand. "Thank you, Elaine."

"You're welcome, Neal." She pauses. "You're a good man. You'll be just fine."

He flashes her a smile, then turns to take his exit, and she just watches after him. Just studying the most beautiful and most broken man she's ever met.


	12. Chapter 10: The Deep End

A/N: Hello there! School has been SO busy, so it'll be a little difficult to keep updating this quickly, but I won't let you guys down. :) Thank you so much for all the support. It means a lot.

DISCLAIMER: I do not own the lyrics from 'The Deep End' by Crossfade. Just borrowing them because I freaking love Crossfade.

Chapter 10

Some stupid, ignorant, cocky part of Neal thought that by the last day of his dry-out, he'd feel better. It may have just been the voice that is always in the back of his tortured, messed-up brain, whispering to him that no matter what, he's better than everyone else. He can handle things the way others can't. He can do things others can't. He's somehow above it.

Consciously, subjectively, he knows that's not true. Of course he doesn't actually think he's better than anyone else, but he prides himself on being strong. What doesn't kill you makes you stronger. If that's true, Neal must be the Hulk. If it isn't true, he should have been dead a long, long time ago.

His mild arrogance put aside, he's in a panic. He's supposed to return to work tomorrow, dealing with all of the pressures of his job with the FBI, and he can't even sleep at night. This time, though, when he wakes, he feels nauseous and his head is pounding. He's disoriented. He's not sure where he is; this isn't the couch in the Burke's living room that he fell asleep on. After a few moments of looking around, bringing a hand to his head to relieve the pressure, he grabs hold of his surroundings and his heart sinks. It does more than sink; it drops, slamming against the bottom of his chest, leaving him out of breath, empty, and cold; and he's immediately racked with a combination of sobs, coughs, something akin to dry-heaving, and low, strangled noises of rage from deep in his throat. He fucked up.

He's in Kate's abandoned apartment. The concrete pillar in the middle of the room is the only thing keeping him in an upright position right now, and he surveys the scene. He's never been so physically affected by the site of an object before, and the physical pain he feels as his stomach ties up in knots and his head swims is, he feels, an appropriate reaction to the bottles littered across the concrete. He lets his head drop back against the pillar, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. He didn't mean for this. He doesn't even remember doing this. No memory at all. It if were up to Neal, the real Neal, this wouldn't have happened. That wasn't him, it couldn't have been him. He was someone else entirely. This person that has taken over his body and is destroying everything in his life just isn't who he is. This, of course, is what he tells himself, but he inwardly acknowledges that this was all his own doing.

How is he going to tell Peter?

The situation is both resolved and made worse when his phone rings.

"Peter," he croaks, throat dry.

"Neal, where the hell are you? I'm about to call and get your location from your anklet if you don't start giving me some answers."

It takes him a moment, but he shuts his eyes and lets out a low breath, preparing himself. "I messed up, Peter."

The silence he receives in response is deafening and torturous. He swears under his breath, hanging his head.

After what seems like forever, he hears Peter exhale sharply in reply before saying out loud what he already knows. "You relapsed."

Neal doesn't have any words, other than a brief, "Yeah."

"Damn it, Neal," he mutters, but he knows he's not angry. He can't be. He's just incredibly sad. "I'll come get you."

Neal's response is barely audible. "I'm at Kate's."

The immediate click and the whiny dial tone confirms for Neal: this is unforgivable.

After a few moments of gathering himself, swallowing his nausea, and trying to steady the tremors in what would usually just be his hands, but now plague his entire body, he pulls himself up, dusting off his trousers and raking a hand through his hair. _Fuck._

The bottles help him piece it together. He doesn't like to mix, and the generously priced bottles of whiskey tell him he was aiming for immediate and deep, dreamless sleep. Wine is usually for a prolonged comfortable numbness. He must have just needed it all to stop.

When Peter cautiously enters the apartment, he lets out a low, slow breath, and takes in the scene: Neal is sitting against the pillar, one knee up, staring into the skyline, the bottles neatly lined up at his feet.

"Neal." Neal doesn't turn his head to look at Peter, just keeps it down. "Neal," he tries again, this time crossing the apartment and kneeling in front of the young man. Neal doesn't meet his gaze, but a low, quiet, noise emits from the depths of his throat; it's sad, angry, and remorseful all at once. Peter tries one more time. "Neal."

Neal finally glances up, meeting his eyes, and Peter is struck by how purely empty they are. He looks down, dropping a hand on Neal's shoulder. "Let's get you home."

Neal just nods, rolling up his sleeves. He finally speaks, but it's so quiet Peter barely hears him. "I don't remember it. Nothing. I didn't mean for this to happen, I swear."

"I know." He pauses. "What's the last thing you remember?"

Neal scoffs, but it's weak. "Falling asleep on your couch last night."

Peter raises his eyebrows. "How'd you get here?"

Neal just shakes his head, silently answering the question: Peter's guess is as good as Neal's. The older man extends a hand, helping Neal up, and leading him out the door.

The car ride is silent, as it often is these days. Peter wants to say so much to Neal right now, but he knows this isn't the time. Especially since it's clear the young man is incredibly hungover and in a lot of pain. Neal just rests his head against the window, eyes shut, drawing deep, shaky breaths.

When they pull up and head inside, Neal just wanders over to the sofa, collapsing on it, facing up, with his hands behind his head. He squeezes his eyes shut: he feels dizzy, nauseous, and tired, and he doesn't have the center of balance to stand right now.

Peter just sits on the armchair across from Neal. "Do you know how much it terrified me to wake up this morning and realize you weren't here?" Neal just nods, eyes still shut. Peter sighs, leaning on the arm of the chair. "Are you alright?" Neal nods again. "We'll get through this." Neal doesn't nod this time, and Peter sighs again. El is just sitting at the kitchen table, watching this. She doesn't even notice the tears welling up in her eyes until she blinks and one escapes. She looks down.

Peter studies Neal, then pushes himself up, adjusting his sleeves. "Did you take your meds last night?" Neal sighs, and sits upright.

"No."

"Why the hell not, Neal."

He squeezes his eyes shut. "I wanted to be done with it. I was just trying to speed up the process."

"That's not how it works-"

"Yeah, I got that, Peter," he snaps, rubbing his temples with the bottoms of his palms.

Peter just plops down on the sofa again, scrubbing his face with his hands. This isn't how this was supposed to go. He knew it wouldn't be easy, he definitely knew that. Somehow, though, he just always viewed Neal as invincible. He never let anything get in his way, certainly not this.

Elizabeth quietly clears her throat. Neal and Peter both turn their heads, waiting. "Neal? I think this is okay. This is natural. And it doesn't mean you messed up. It's a part of recovery. It was a lesson, not a failure."

He smiles weakly, looking down. "Thanks, El. That means a lot." Peter just nods at this. His wife is exactly right, she's so good with words. She's always been able to articulate exactly what he meant, things he could never find a way to put in words.

"What are you going to do now?" El asks, propping her elbows on the table so she can place her chin on her laced fingers.

He sinks a little further into the sofa, sighing. "Call Elaine? Call the doctor?"

Peter nods, pointing to Neal as he stands, subconsciously slipping into FBI mode. "Do that, report back to me when you're done."

Neal just chuckles, leaning his head back and shutting his eyes, tilting his face towards the ceiling. "Yes, sir."

* * *

"What happened, Neal."

He sighs, leaning back against the couch, draping an arm over the side of the sofa like it was a woman's shoulder. "I wish I could tell you."

Elaine looks down at her legal pad in her lap, a few tendrils of her dark ringlets falling around her face. "How are you feeling right now? Physically and emotionally"

He draws a slow breath inward. "Physically, I've been sick all morning. Can't shake it. Headache is bad, but it's a light ache, a hangover headache. Not the dull pulsing headaches I've been having." The fingers of the arm he has draped over the couch tremble, and he draws them into his lap.

"And emotionally?"

"Disappointed. Angry. Terrified."

"Why are you angry?"

"I messed this up."

"You relapsed, that's a natural part of recovery. You learned a lesson. It doesn't mean you've failed."

He glances down and smiles as he hears those words for the second time today. He wonders if Elizabeth has been researching alcoholism to better understand and help Neal. Peter has snagged a wonderful woman.

"That's what they tell me."

She smiles. "Anything else you would like to tell me about this incident?"

Neal shifts, and hesitates. When he speaks, his voice is flat. "I woke up in her apartment."

"Kate?" He nods, not looking at her. "Why do you think you went there?"

He shrugs, taking a moment. "If I was going to do it, I wanted to do it somewhere I felt safe?"

"Do you not feel safe with Peter?"

"I do. I just hate disappointing him. I can't disappoint Kate. She's dead."

"I think you can still disappoint her, Neal. And you can let yourself down. She wouldn't want this for you."

He just nods, scratching the back of his head. She studies him for a moment.

"Why don't we figure out what we can do to make sure this doesn't happen again?" He nods again. "I'd like you to begin attending meetings. Starting today."

"I don't know if meetings are really for-"

"Well you'll never know until you try, will you?" she interjects, her eyes boring into him, daring him to challenge her logic. He sighs.

"No."

"Good. You can start with open meetings. No pressure to participate." She looks back down at her papers, and writes a few things down. "We'll up the Tegretol a bit, I'll talk to the doctor about that. Relapsing so soon after detox can make the second time around much harder."

He sighs, glancing down. "Great."

She focuses her eyes on his. "Neal. You are more than capable of doing this. We just need to build you a toolkit so you can handle these things when they occur."

"Tools," he repeats, raising his eyebrows, skeptical.

Neal understands tools. He knows every lock-picking set in the world, he can easily navigate security systems, and he's skilled with every type of surveillance equipment, but he's quite confident these are not the kinds of tools she's referring to.

"Coping mechanisms. Such as meetings. Frequent rehabilitation therapy. A sponsor. Establishing and eliminating triggers."

This is all a little too much for Neal. He can't even stop himself from making a royal mess of his entire life, and now, in order to try to stop that, he needs to manage all of this, too. He hesitates. "This is…"

"A lot to handle?" she finishes for him. He just sighs. "We're going to take it all one step at a time. Just focus on one day at a time, Neal. Think of it this way. You are struggling, and you start craving. You want to use, but you know it's not going to help in the long run. Focus on that day. Just get through today, and worry about tomorrow when it comes."

This doesn't work for Neal. He plans things out. Far, far in advance. That's how he operates, that's how he's wired. That's the center of the life of a con-man.

"That's not really how I work."

"Would you like to make an effort and mildly adjust these things for the sake of your life, or are you going to resign all hope and suffer through life as an alcoholic individual?"

She has him there. He shifts, letting out a low breath. "I'll focus on today." She nods.

"You will. You just need to break this down into manageable pieces. I know it's a lot at once. Don't bite off more than you can chew."

"I won't."

She smiles, and stands, going to shake his hand. "I know." She pauses, then tilts her head down slightly, studying his eyes. "Remember, meetings. Starting today. I'll find out if you don't."

He snickers, looking down. "I'll go. Thank you."

"Thank you, Neal."

He blinks. "For...what?"

"For working through this, and making the decision to pick yourself back up again. That says a lot."

He smiles weakly, looking down.

"I hope so."

_I built my life like my bike on a rigid frame; nothing bends, it only breaks into pieces and pieces. I waited for hope to arrive but it never came, leaving me with only pain inside. I'm going off the deep end. Holding on is harder than it seems, when you're reaching for so much more. Seems so much easier to just give in, when you're reaching for so much more._


	13. Chapter 11: Twisted Nerve

A/N: Hello, my dears. This chapter is a bit of set up for some big events coming up in Occupational Hazard. It is so much fun, I'm having an absolute ball with it, and I'm glad to hear you guys are enjoying it, too. :)

Chapter 11

When it came down to it, Neal had to admit that it could have been a whole lot worse. An extra week to dry out wasn't _that _ bad, and while Elaine was right: the withdrawals were even worse the second time around, that wasn't what he truly struggled with. The hardest part of all of it was making those little adjustments in his life; having to tip-toe around things and focus very clearly on today and today alone was not Neal's comfort zone. A man who likes to grab life by the horns and tackle things head-on has trouble taking baby-steps. Put simply, it felt like a big step in the wrong direction.

He survived it, though, and after assessment, was allowed to return to work. Peter was skeptical. At first, he had allotted the four days as what he thought was a good amount of time, but here, now, in the office, he's beginning to doubt that decision. The entire team is around the table, throwing out ideas, and all Peter can focus on is Neal, sitting at the other side of the table. He has his elbows up, resting his forehead against one palm, the other squeezed tight into a fist, resting on the tabletop. His eyes are squeezed shut, but the way he's holding himself is the only indication that he's struggling. A very light tremble runs through his fingers, but beyond that, the color has returned to his face, his eyes have a little more light, and he doesn't look or feel ill every minute of every day. But he's still struggling. Peter knows it.

"Neal, what do you think?" Peter ventures, leaning back in his chair. Neal glances up, then shuts his eyes for a brief moment before sitting up completely, stretching his arms up.

"I think… we need to get to the guy pulling the strings when it comes to the patients. The middle man. This guy is putting the fear of God into these people, and if they don't pay with their wallets, they'll be paying with their reputations."

Peter presses his lips together, considering. "That could work. Get me more on that," he orders, raising his eyebrows at Neal, who simply nods distractedly while looking at his watch.

"Yeah, no problem, but I gotta run," he murmurs, standing and pulling on his bag. Peter raises his eyebrows again.

"Where do you think you're going?"

Neal stops, suddenly aware of everyone in the room staring at him. He lowers his eyes and voice, muttering when he explains. "I have a meeting, Peter."

Peter nods, looking down, and waving him out. Diana glances up at Peter once Neal is gone. "Meeting?"

"AA," Peter explains, clipped and terse, tapping his pencil on the table. Diana raises her brows.

"I thought he wasn't going."

"Elaine's having him go this week, see what he thinks."

She considers, and shrugs, returning to work. As much as Neal stresses about what his coworkers think, they honestly don't give it much thought. He's still Neal. He's still the same genius man they've worked with all this time. That hasn't, and never will, change.

The stained glass casts distorted shapes of colored light across the floor and over the chairs set up in a circle. Neal knows it's meant to be beautiful, and perhaps in a certain light, in a certain setting, or in a certain circumstance, it is, but for some reason all he can think of is a psychedelic circus. He isn't sure what to do; a few people are milling about, some having conversations, others reading, others just standing looking as uncomfortable as he is. He wanders over to the coffee, and pours himself a cup, jumping when he feels a hand on his shoulder. He glances back.

"Hi there, I haven't seen you here before." The voice belongs to a woman, maybe a bit younger than Neal, and he's stunned into silence when he sees her, and notices how much she resembles June's granddaughter Cindy. "Is this your first time?"

Neal turns all the way around to face her, and smiles, extending a hand. "It is." He pauses. "Nick. Nick Halden. I'm afraid I didn't catch your name?"

She gives him a firm, solid handshake, one of the first things he looks for in a woman, and she flashes a row of white teeth behind her violet lipstick. "Sisley."

He tilts his head, smiling, as though to urge her on. "Do you have a last name, Sisley?"

She glances over her shoulder, then back to Neal. "We don't use last names here, Nick." She looks down and smiles. "But it is very nice to meet you. Welcome. Have a seat, we're about to start." She flashes him one last smile, then turns and crosses to a table at the other end of the room, flipping through a binder, and speaking quietly to another woman. He stares after her, then sighs, looking down at his coffee and stirring it while he wanders over to a seat. He's bouncing his knee, sipping the coffee, and keeping his eyes down. He struck it lucky on that first encounter, he's not sure about the rest of these people.

Once the majority of the group has shuffled around and settled into their chairs, Neal finds himself settled between a 75 year old woman with big, bright teeth (probably dentures) and a man about Neal's age, also dressed in a fine suit. They glance at each other and double take right as the leader stands.

They begin with a prayer. Neal's sure he knew it growing up but has no clue what it's called or what the words are now. The fact that several other people don't speak along with the group is not lost on Neal. He's relieved. She then asks if anyone needs new chips. Several people stand, and they each announce their name, and some significant amount of time. Days, months, years clean.

"Is anyone new here today?" Several people raise their hands. A handful of others look down, around, anywhere but the speaker's eyes. Neal figures they're new too, but don't want to bring attention to themselves. Neal doesn't move either, but he can feel Sisley's eyes studying him from across the room. A few chips are handed out to the First Meeting members.

This is awful. This is absolutely awful.

"Today we'll be discussing step four: to make a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves."

He doesn't know how long he can handle this.

"Where, in yourself, are the emotional flaws or deformities in personality that took away from your ambitions, passions, and desires for success and happiness in life?"

Neal is one big emotional flaw and personality deformity. He's a thief. A ruthless thief, liar, con artist, and forger, with an absolute heart of gold that he gives out far too easily. There is a difference, he's always insisted, between installing trust in someone, and giving out one's heart. Kate didn't even know Neal's real name, and he gave her all. All he had to offer, he gave to her, until the bars he was locked behind didn't allow him to give himself away anymore. That was when he lost her.

"Take stock of those flaws, hand them to God, and humbly request that He rid you of these."

Here, God. Here are my problems. You worry about them.

"Now take stock of your positive traits. What can we find in you, to build you up, to be the absolute best you can be? What skill can we nurture during your recovery?"

He's good at stealing things. He's good at lying to people. He's really good at royally fucking his life up.

"Do you have those things in your mind? Use them to feed your soul."

Neal doesn't have a soul. His died a long time ago. Over time, life will do that to a person. It broke him down until he became a shell of the man he once was.

By the time the meeting is wrapping up, Neal is completely overwhelmed. He feels sick, he can't keep his thoughts straight, and he can't sit still. He can still sense Sisley staring at him, and he has to consciously focus on not looking over at her.

When the leader finishes with the closing Serenity Prayer, he pushes himself up, adjusting his jacket and flipping his hat before pulling it on. He glances up at he wrong time and accidentally locks eyes with her again, and she crosses over to him. "What did you think, Nick?" He plasters on a smile, faking his way through it.

"Very interesting. Glad I came."

She returns his smile, but there's something in her eyes. Something that says, _I know your secret. _ "You can be honest. You've been hiding your whole life, I can tell. You don't have to hide here."

He blinks, then shifts his weight, visibly relaxing. "Have you been reading minds for long?"

She smiles again. "No, I'm just a member of this elite group: sick and misunderstood." She pauses. "It allows me to see absolute truth."

A mischievous smirk plays on Neal's features. "What does my absolute truth say?"

She studies him, and her eyes flicker up and down his figure for a moment. "You're a liar." He raises his eyebrows, shifting his weight. "A liar of epic proportions. You don't know who you really are, and you don't really want to know, so you make sure no one else tries to find out."

Neal presses his lips together, nodding and slipping his hands into his pockets. "Impressive."

She raises her brows. "Thanks, Nick." When she shifts her weight, the colors of the stained glass cast over her, distorting her beauty, and for a moment, it catches Neal off guard. She glances at her watch. "I do need to be going now, lots of work to do, but it was very nice to meet you, Nick Halden." She flashes a smile before walking away, and he turns, staring after her. Interesting.

* * *

"You have to go back."

"I'm not going back there, Peter. It was no help at all, by the end of it I _needed _ a drink."

"You don't _need _ anything, Neal." He sighs, and evens his tone. "You're under orders. If you want to work for us, you go."

Neal throws his hands up, groaning. "It's counter-productive. It was absolutely pointless."

Peter crosses his arms, lifting one to hold two fingers to his temple. Neal and his absolute stubbornness always get in the way.

"Neal," he starts, then just sighs, looking down. "I want this for you. But it's never going to happen if you don't want it, too. These aren't difficult things. They're just things you have to commit to."

Neal interrupts him here. "Peter, I know how it works. I don't need the speech. I've got this." He pauses. "I just have to believe this isn't the only way."

"I understand where you're coming from, but you just need to work on what's tried and true, before you try anything else. Learn the rules before you break them."

"I'm not really a rules guy, you know that."

Peter frowns and stands a little taller, firm. "I do know that. And look where it's landed you. It may do you some good to follow rules for once."

Neal's eyes are wide, and he blinks and looks down, swallowing. _Look where it's landed you._

He nods, after a moment. "Yeah. Yeah, okay… Peter."

Peter sighs, his hands finding his hips, and he shifts his weight. "That's not-"

"No, I got it." He backs up, hands raised in defense. "Obviously my way doesn't work, because…well, look where it's landed me."

With this, he whips around, adjusting his hat and sauntering out the door. Peter collapses back into his chair, exhaling sharply.

Neal reaches out to catch the elevator right before it shuts, spinning around to face the front once he enters. He shoves a thumb into Elaine's floor number, then leans back against the wall, slipping his hands into his pockets, feeling them shake against the fabric. After all this time, he had imagined it would have gotten better by now, but it still feels like it's getting worse every day.

"How did the first meeting go?" Elaine asks once Neal takes his seat on her sofa. He shakes his head, pressing his lips together. "You don't want to talk about it?"

There's got to be some benefit in talking about, and continuing to attend, the meetings, even if Neal doesn't see it yet. He shifts on the sofa. "It's fine. It was overwhelming."

"That's alright. It's okay for things to be overwhelming, we just need to build up the skills you need so that you can handle it in a healthy way."

"You're absolutely right," he admits, settling in and leaning his elbows on his knees. "It's just an adjustment." Pause. "It's definitely a commitment, I don't think I'll have the time to go every day."

"You can make the time. You made the time to drink every day."

Neal studies her at this. Of all of the things that bother Neal, people challenging how he handles his own business is at the top of the list. She somehow manages to take everything he says and flip it on its side. "Yeah. Yeah, okay."

Elaine tilts her head. "How is work going?"

Neal sits up a bit straighter. "Difficult. I'm struggling to stay focused, I'm not on my game."

"That will get better with time. Your head is used to being in a fog, it will take some time for that fog to lift."

"It's not really convenient."

"Neither was the way you were living."

"I know." Pause. "When can I move back home?"

"Once your treatment is over."

"Which is when?"

"When you are able to handle the things that come your way in a healthy manner, without turning to a bottle. When, no matter how difficult the cravings may be, you can resist them because you know you deserve better in your life."

This sparks a thought in Neal. Does he deserve better? A life well lived deserves a job well done. Is his a life well lived? The simple knowledge that the work he does now is helping people doesn't change his history, and the things he's done.

When he's back up in the white collar office, tapping his pen against his desk as he flips through the profiles of the former patients now working for Wilcox, these memories continue to nag at him. They're reaching into his brain, flipping it around, handling it with their fingers, pulling apart threads and thoughts. He's so distracted he doesn't even notice Peter wander up to his desk.

"Neal." He finally glances up, shaking out of the distracted fog.

"Yeah."

"Conference room. Now." Neal nods, pushing himself up and following Peter's heavy footsteps with his own relaxed, swaying gait. The rest of the team is already gathered, their low murmurs of discussion amongst themselves putting Neal on edge. They settle when Peter shuts the door, awaiting his words.

"Alright, kids. We've got our in." Neal looks up at this, and Diana takes over.

"The organization that runs the clinic is hosting a charity event this weekend, and Wilcox is on the guest list. Word has it he's looking for a new numbers guy, a good amount of his senior staff got the boot when the clinic closed to new patients. They're up and running again now, and this is a grand re-opening of sorts. If we can get one of our own into his inner circle, we're made."

Jones cuts in. "No patients will be in attendance, it's clear this guy likes to keep work and play separate. Can't risk any one of them dropping the ball."

Peter nods. "Once we're in, we can figure out how he's manipulating such a mass amount of money under the table. That's what we'll use to bring him down."

"Who's going in?" Neal asks, obviously already considering himself as a candidate. Peter just narrows his eyes.

"Not you. No high-risk work during treatment."

Neal throws up his hands. "This is right up my alley, Peter. I can do this."

"I'm sure you can, but this isn't a good time for you to go undercover, Neal, you know that."

"But I-"

"No, no protests. You know as well as I do this wouldn't be a good idea."

Diana clears her throat, and Peter looks up at this. "Boss, can I talk to you outside for a minute?"

Peter sighs, and motions out the door. They both step down the hall a bit, and Diana lowers her voice.

"I think Caffrey is more than capable in terms of completing this assignment."

Peter shifts his weight, crossing his arms. "Is that so?"

She maintains herself. "He's doing much better, and I think he's our man for the job."

"Diana, he's so incredibly unstable right now, and this is something that hits so close to home for him. It could make the whole thing that much worse."

"I think that's exactly why he should do this: he cares passionately about what these people are going through. When Neal cares about something, nothing gets in his way. He'll do this and he'll do it right."

Neal is leaning back in his chair, casually glancing over at Peter and Diana, trying to figure out what's happening. When the pair return, Diana has a straight face, but Peter's features are tight and contorted, clearly trying to hide some sort of emotion. He doesn't look at Neal when he speaks to him.

"Neal, you're going in," he announces through his teeth, clipped and terse. Neal glances over at Diana, raising an eyebrow. She just sits, not giving him a reaction.

"What changed your mind?" he ventures.

Peter tilts his chin up, and studies Neal.

"You're the right man for the job."

In truth, Peter knows this. He knows Neal is absolutely the right man for the job, but his crippling fear of losing or further harming this man that he has found himself so deeply attached to is what holds him back. As odd as it may sound, aside from Elizabeth, Neal is probably the most important person in his life. The confidence he has instilled in Neal over time has broken down with every incident: every time Neal sent Peter's calls straight to voice-mail because he was just too drunk to handle talking to his boss at that moment, every time Peter caught a light whiff of whiskey when Neal breezed by him in the office, every time he had to repeat himself once or twice to get Neal to snap out of it... it was all building up to what finally broke him down. The damage done to their relationship was not irreparable, but it was going to take a lot of work to get things back to the way they were.

Beyond all of this, beyond Peter's lack of trust in Neal right now, is a deeper fear. He does struggle sending Neal on this mission due to their breakdown in trust, but more than anything, he doesn't want Neal to get hurt. This will be emotional for him, it will be difficult to stay the course and not let his feelings get in the way. It will be pressure, pressure he knows Neal isn't equipped to deal with in a healthy way right now. But Diana is right.

Neal is the only man for this job.


	14. Chapter 12: Wicked Game

A/N: This chapter was great fun to write, I really took the time to delve into the details of Neal's experience, as the last chapter was primarily set up for events in this and the next few chapters!

Chapter 12

"Is anyone new here today?"

Neal hesitates, then cautiously lifts a finger. Melissa, today's leader, gestures to him. "I'm…Nick. I came yesterday."

She smiles at this. "Welcome, Nick. We're glad you came back." He forces a smile, and sinks a little lower in his chair.

He doesn't say another word for most of the meeting, until they begin to discuss the moments they first thought they may have had a problem with alcohol. Sisley shares a heart-wrenching story about her father's funeral, and waking up in the bathtub, wrapped in his robe after the reception. It breaks his heart, and her absolute openness and everyone in the group's welcoming love encourages him. He holds up a finger, and inhales deeply when called on.

This isn't something he expected to ever actually participate in, and it almost feels like a de-personalized experience. It's like he's sitting on the other side of the room, watching these words just spill out of his own mouth.

"Every time I looked at her, it was like…it was like I could see the hope in her eyes. And the job, the job I had at the time…it was tough. I couldn't really talk about it, and it was so, so hard, to try to keep her safe, knowing most of it was completely out of my control. I like control, I need control," he explains, his fingers laced together in his lap as he leans forward, and several people nod at this. "It's how I'm wired. And every time I came home with bad news, that we were in a little deeper than we were the day before, it was like that hope kept fading with my every word. I was killing her, I was killing myself, with these risks I had to take. I just kept getting myself in deeper and deeper with the wrong kinds of people."

The pause he takes here holds weight, full of the regrets he's never let himself acknowledge. "She got hurt, because of my actions. That's when it started, really. Really. She was losing faith in me, I was losing faith in myself, and I didn't know how to deal with it." Neal lowers his head, pressing a palm to his temple. "This, these incidents kept happening, and I only had myself to blame, but I had dug a pit a million feet deep and it was too late to try to crawl out, I just had to keep digging deeper and deeper and hope I'd eventually break through and walk out the other side, unharmed. But it never happens that way, does it?"

A sad smile tugs on his lips, and he looks up again. "It never happens that way. And, eventually, when all of these things built up, and I had to admit defeat, it broke us. Both of us. I had ruined us, all of the big dreams and hopes we had for our lives, and she was only in the situation she was in because of me." The members of the group nod, and lean back in their chairs, but Neal hunches forward, closing himself in physically as he spills himself emotionally. "This isn't how it was supposed to be. This wasn't the way it was supposed to go, we had these plans. We were going to go to France, we were going to live these amazing lives, but we were stuck here. She was stuck here, with me. With all of her hopes and dreams shattered because of the trouble I got us into, and there I was, chasing all of it down with a bottle, not making anything better for either of us. Not being there for her, when she needed me, because I was too busy hiding from our problems and doing whatever I could to try to forget."

He pauses here, and shakes his head before sitting up a little taller. "Then, I got arrested, for some things I had done, and had to clean up in prison. But I lost her, she was gone. She said goodbye." He scoffs, but it's not humor, it's just painful regret. "Her parting gift was a bottle, an old empty bottle of expensive Bordeaux, we used to fill with cheap wine from the convenience store, just to pretend our lives weren't as miserable as they actually were. It's funny, that that's what she left me with."

A sharp exhale escapes his lips as he prepares himself for these parting words, shrugging before he starts. "It was better, in a way, that I was locked up. I had the opportunity to clean up, she had the opportunity to go find the life she deserved. When I was released, I found her, but immediately after…." He sighs. "I lost her again. For good. She's dead, she's not coming back." After a brief pause, he sums it all up, leaning forward again. "So it started again. That's how I wound up here."

The room is silent, almost eerily so, and Neal can't bring himself to look up and face the people he's confessed all of this to, even though he knows they sympathize. He doesn't even hear the remainder of the meeting, he's so caught up in his own thoughts and realizing he's finally admitted out loud what happened and how he got this way.

After their closing words, Neal stands, pulling his bag across his chest, hands shaking uncontrollably, both from the nerves, and the cravings, and several people come by to introduce themselves and thank him for sharing.

In return, he thanks them for sharing their stories, and that he's looking forward to tomorrow. He means it, too.

Melissa hands him his first chip, and he slips it into his pocket before turning to take his exit, but Sisley stops him. "Nick." He turns, and studies her. He doesn't wear any emotion because he doesn't feel any. Somehow, spilling all of this, it's numbed him. He's untouchable, which he would think would be a relief, but it just leaves him feeling emptier than before. "Thank you for sharing today. You're a brave man."

This couldn't be farther from the truth. He's a coward. All he does is run. "I don't know about that, I'm just trying to get through this. But thanks." He slips his hands into his pockets, rocking back on his heels.

She smiles. "One day at a time. I'll see you around, Neal." She breezes past him, and his breath hitches. He whirls around, calling after her.

"My name's Nick!"

She doesn't turn to look at him when she speaks, just continuing on her way out as she calls back. "No, it's not, Mr. Caffrey."

Right before she's out the door, he manages this. "We don't use last names here!" She stops, and glances over her shoulder, handing him a small smile before disappearing out the door.

* * *

The collar of his suit just won't sit right, and it's already frustrating him. That's Neal's natural state as of late, constantly frustrated. Things just don't go his way and they all bother him severely, no matter how trivial they are. He's still bothered by the events at the meeting today. Not only was sharing his story an extremely trying experience for him, he keeps coming back to his interaction with Sisley, turning it over and over in his brain, dissecting it, trying to figure out what happened, who she is, and how she knows who he is.

"Caffrey. You okay?" Jones asks, bringing him back to reality. Neal glances up, distracted.

"Yeah?" He shakes it out. "Yeah. I'm good." His reflection in the mirror distorts into faces of frustration as he messes with the collar. "Just trying to get this to look okay."

Jones snickers, and looks back at his papers at the desk, shaking his head. "You need to relax, man."

Peter walks in, taking the reigns. "Jones, settle down. Neal, you will be just fine." He reaches out and fixes the collar, smirking at Neal when he immediately gets it to sit straight. "We've got an hour and a half before we go in, do you want to go over anything before we do?"

Neal presses his lips together, shaking his head. "I've got this. I go in, give Wilcox the nod, let him know I'm his man."

"And how do you plan to do that?" Neal glances over his shoulder, flashing Peter a smile.

"By doing what I do best?"

"What, getting him into bed?" Jones calls over his shoulder, scoffing. Peter just narrows his eyes.

"Wha-" He just shakes his head. "No, stop that. How is that even an insult? Don't encourage him." Neal just snickers, looking down as he adjusts his cuffs. Peter pulls him aside, taking an entirely different tone, his voice low. "How are you doing, Neal? Really."

Neal shifts uncomfortably, glancing down the hall. "I'm great."

"What's going on?"

Neal shrugs in response. "Just had a tough time at the meeting today. Actually shared today."

Peter raises his eyebrows at this. "How did that go?"

"Better than I anticipated. For some stupid reason I thought everyone would immediately start judging me. I expected that as soon as I said I was an alcoholic they'd all spit out their coffee and shout cries of disapproval and moral outrage."

Peter just laughs, shaking his head. "You're all in the same boat, Neal." His hand drops on Neal's shoulder. "You're doing just fine. You've got this."

Neal smiles and gives him a wink. "You know I do."

When they approach the gates to the hall where the charity is to be held, they give each other a sideways glance, and Neal inhales sharply before they enter, willing himself to switch gears to adjust to the massive crowd. Turn on the charm.

"Boss, I've got eyes on Wilcox," Diana informs Peter through his earpiece. "West hall, by the door. We've identified the man he's with, one James Thompson. Got quite a rap sheet, in and out of prisons and rehabs most of his early adult life, now a successful financier."

Peter nods at all of this. "Great, thanks, Di." He takes a few paces to his right, peering in the door from a distance to get his own eyes on Wilcox. Neal raises his eyebrows, glancing around at the crowd. It's the first thing he always does on assignment: check for exits, see who he can talk to, find out who to avoid, and read the crowd. After taking a brief inventory of his surroundings, he rejoins Peter, standing behind his mentor and slipping his hands into his pockets. "Nice crowd," he murmurs behind Peter, and the older man just glances over his shoulder without fully turning his head.

"Catch anything good?"

Neal shakes his head, frowning. "Not yet. I need to watch Wilcox for a bit before I go in, get a good read of him." Peter just nods, motioning over to the bar, signaling to Neal where he'll be. Neal nods, keeping his eyes on Wilcox.

Several things about Joseph Wilcox jump out at him. The man stands up tall, he knows how to present himself. Neal almost feels challenged when he notices the man is also wearing a fedora hat, and he subconsciously adjusts his own, swallowing his anxiety. Wilcox keeps one arm resting on the piano he stands next to, the other steadily holding a tumbler of amber liquid, which Neal can say with pretty solid certainty is not ginger ale. When Thompson delivers his parting words and takes his exit, Neal takes his opportunity to cut in.

"Joseph. Joseph Wilcox?" he grins, extending a hand. Wilcox raises an eyebrow, suspicious, and reaches out to accept the handshake.

"I've been found out," he mutters, deadpan. "And who might you be?" Neal immediately adapts to his dry sense of humor, taking a slightly more serious tone.

"George Danvary, and very gracious to finally be meeting you, sir."

Wilcox raises both eyebrows at this, then shrugs, shifting his weight. "Nice to hear a few people still recognize me for my genius. What brings you to our event today?"

Neal has to stop himself from rolling his eyes at Wilcox's braggadocio, but maintains himself, tilting his head.

"Just an everyday member of society looking to provide support for those who need it. The ill of our city who are so often criminalized." He flashes a smile. "Trying to do my part to make the world a better place."

"If that's what you're after, there's something you should know right off the bat. This world is never going to be a better place, no matter how much money we throw at the problem. The people of this world don't care about change, they care about FEELING like they've made change. That's never going to happen with the way charitable support is currently operating."

At this, Neal shifts, considering. "I'll remember that. If I may ask, then, what are you doing here?"

"I like to do what I can, given the state of the situation," he explains, voice a little lower. Neal takes note of this, and glances around to see what may have spooked Wilcox.

He smirks, a light twinkle in his eye. "Glad to see we still have good people in this city."

Wilcox looks down and shares a small smile, raising his glass at this. "Amen to that. So. How can I help you today, Mr. Danvary?"

Neal considers, eyes darting left and right to check his perimeter. "I was going to ask you just that. Numbers are my game. I hear you're looking for a new player."

Wilcox shifts, lowering his voice further. "Where did you hear that?"

"Like I said, just looking to provide support for those who need it." He grins. "I'd like to be of help."

"How exactly do you plan to help me?"

"If you're looking for a new numbers guy, that leads me to believe you have a problem. I can make that problem disappear."

Wilcox takes a moment to check his surroundings, then leans in slightly. "How do you know you can help me?"

Neal wears the faintest hint of his signature cocky smirk. "Because I've been looking at your numbers for the past six months, I know exactly where your problem is, and I can get the people looking into you off your tail, because I've done it hundreds of times before."

"Prove it."

Neal leans in, confiding in Joseph with his voice low and sure. "Your financials don't add up for the year 2010. Several of your contract fees are missing in the public external audit, not just your year's expense report. Fifteen, would be the exact number. I can make that go away. All we need to do is fix the books so the charitable donations add up. Throw in a couple write-offs, designate a recipient, fix it in the histories. You're set." He leans back, returns himself to his casual lean against the piano, and flashes a grin. "Now how does that sound?"

Wilcox considers, then leans back, sighing. "That would sound wonderful, if you assumed my accounts were untraceable."

Neal keeps his face straight. "Why assume what I already know?"

Wilcox studies him for a moment, then leans back, a small smile on his lips. "You're smarter than that. Well, I like you, George Danvary. I look forward to working with you."

Neal rocks back slightly on his heels, grinning. "The feeling is mutual."

Wilcox chuckles at this, then glances at his drink, raising it. "Well, we should celebrate! What can I get you, what's your poison?"

Neal's face goes blank for a moment, and when he recovers, he plasters on a smile, holding up a hand. "Not while I'm on the job, but thank you."

Wilcox chuckles again, but this time it's tinged with condescension and a little bit of judgement. "George, you're on the job when I say you're on the job." He snaps a finger and a young man nearby rushes over holding a tray dressed in crystal tumblers, each with their own generous measure of Neal's preferred poison. Wilcox takes one and pushes it into Neal's raised hand. He smiles oddly, and speaks through his teeth. "I insist. If you want to work with the big dogs, you'll act like a big dog."

Neal swallows, and tries to steady his hand, which trembles slightly as it clutches the glass. He forces a smile, jaw clenched. "Of course." Wilcox's smile becomes genuine again, and he clinks his glass against Neal's.

"Cheers," Wilcox grunts, before lifting the glass to his lips, taking a generous sip. Neal mimics his actions, letting the cool liquid wash against and sting his lips, without parting them. He mimes a swallow and sucks at his teeth, grimacing. "Ah," exclaims Wilcox, shutting his eyes. "Only the finest at my events." The older man leans in, confiding in Neal a great secret. "That's what I call charitable support."

Neal forces a smile, then looks down, carefully sipping at the glass again, this time letting a small measure past his lips and wash through him when he swallows, panic creeping into his bones. He glances up at the right moment, and sees Peter at the other end of the hall, stopped in his tracks, just staring at Neal like a deer in the headlights.

"How is it, my friend?" Neal just raises his eyebrows, nodding, looking down at the glass, before taking another small sip.

"Is this a Glenturret?"

Wilcox beams at him. "'79." Neal frowns, impressed, and nods again, sipping a small measure and trying to keep himself in check. An audible sigh of relief almost escapes his lips when he sees Peter walking over.

"George! Been looking all over for you, how've you been, George?" Peter slaps him on the back, and Neal sputters slightly, regaining his composure after a moment, forcing a smile.

"Good, good. Dr. Tanenbaum, Mr. Joseph Wilcox. Dr. Tanenbaum is from an office I used to do work with."

Joseph leans back slightly, frowning and giving Peter the once over, extending a hand. "Good to meet you."

Peter nods, scanning Wilcox the same way. "You as well. Mind if I borrow Mr. Danvary?" He looks to Neal. "We've got far too much to catch up on to get it all done here!"

Neal just nods, looking down, swirling the liquid in his glass. Wilcox seems a little skeptical at first, then shifts, standing a little taller before he tips his hat to Neal. "Of course. I'll be in touch, George."

Neal shakes his hand with vigor, flashing him a smile. "Do that. We'll talk soon."

As soon as Neal has turned away from Wilcox and Peter places his hand on Neal's shoulder to begin walking him out, the smile fades and his eyes darken, exhaling sharply. Peter leans over to murmur quietly.

"How are you doing?"

Neal keeps his head down, shaking it lightly. "I need to get out of here."

Peter nods at this, frowning and looking straight ahead, pushing slightly as he stops where he is, urging Neal forward. "Diana is in the van, head there. She'll let me know when you're safe."

Neal just nods, shoving his hands in his pockets and not saying another word to Peter as he hastily makes his way to the van on the other side of the parking complex. A few raps on the door indicate his arrival, and Diana swings the door open for Neal. Once he climbs in, he immediately slumps into the first seat he sees, elbows up on the desk and head in his hands, breathing deeply through his nose. Diana just studies him.

"You alright, Caffrey?"

It takes a moment, but he eventually exhales a full, sharp breath, then shakes his head, looking up at her. "I am in way over my head with this one."


	15. Chapter 13: An End Has a Start

A/N: Hi friends. Had a small break there, went through a rough patch myself and updated pretty slowly for a while, kind of lost inspiration for a bit there. But things are going better, and this story sang to my heart today, so I sat down to write and just kept writing. This one is a little sad, just the kind of mood today ended up being... it was good therapy. But all will soon be well in White Collar land. I hope you enjoy. :)

PS HOW AMAZING was that episode?

Chapter 13

"Some days are better than others," Diana offers, and Neal doesn't respond physically to this, just maintains his position in the chair, bent at the waist and holding his head in his hands, elbows propped up on the table.

"Truer words," he murmurs in response. The entire thing is a miserable vicious cycle. He's under pressure, in a very poisonous environment, and he's offered (demanded, really) to partake in the one thing that can ease all of this for him. The way it's going for him now, the best thing he can think of to deal with all of this is to just make it go away. Knock back a few measures of the gloriously smooth Glenturret, let it wash through him, cleanse him, and empty him. A soft, smooth blanket to lay over all of the emotion and stress this causes him, in addition to the terrible experience of digging up his skeletons and letting himself re-live the nightmares.

A faint muffled voice tells Neal that Peter is speaking to Diana, and he just keeps his head down. Diana lifts a finger to her earpiece in an attempt to clear Peter's voice. She listens, then responds. "He's here, he's okay. Just taking a breather." A brief pause, and she nods. "Understood. I'll let him know." She glances over to Neal. "Boss says to just relax from here on out. He wants to pull you from the front-lines."

This finally sparks a reaction in Neal, and he straightens up, blinking at Diana. "We're in too deep already, we can't back out of it now, it'll destroy the whole operation. I just need some time-"

"We don't really have time, Neal," Diana informs him with her no-nonsense tone.

"We don't have any other options. I'm in, just waiting for Wilcox to call. You pull me now, I'll lose credibility, and we'll lose Wilcox."

She nods at this, looking back down at her computer. "You can tell that to Peter, see how that goes."

He raises his eyebrows, and glances at the monitor, noting she's pulled up his file. "I'll do that."

* * *

"We had a rough start, Peter, but that doesn't mean I'm incapable. You know I'm the man for the job."

Peter is nodding at his desk, looking down, but it's more acknowledging Neal's words than agreeing with him. "I get that. I do. And I know you are, but not at this moment. Not right now, Neal. Not for you. It's not the right time."

Neal leans forward, pressing his palms against the desk, voice low. "There is never a right time, Peter, that's what this is all about. If we just sat around and waiting for the right time, the FBI would never get anything done. When have we ever just sat around, waiting for the 'right time'?" The thought is interrupted by a text on Neal's phone, and he glances at it. "Wilcox wants to see me at 4:30."

Peter looks at his watch. "That's in an hour."

"Do or die, Peter, what's it gonna be?"

The agent leans back in his chair, exhaling a low breath through the small 'o' his lips have formed. "Fine."

"You know we don't have any other option." Peter sighs at this.

"I know. Go… get yourself prepared," he murmurs, waving the issue off.

Neal stands up straight again, and presses his palms together in prayer, bowing slightly to Peter. "_Thank you_," he mouths, and whirls around to go gather his thoughts and information.

He's sitting at his desk, sifting through his paperwork on Wilcox, running over the numbers in his head, which swims and sloshes with turbulent waves. He can't focus. He's jittery. He's craving something fierce, and he wants to run and lock himself in his apartment, hide away and drown all of these fears and emotions. It's all he wants in the world, right now, but he has to work. The pen in his hand clatters against the desktop when he lets it slip from his fingers, and he props up his elbows, holding his head in his hands. A sharp exhale and a light drumming of his fingertips against his hat keep him company amongst the eery silence that has suddenly possessed the office. The silence is screaming; to him, it's almost deafening. It's getting in the way of his focus and what he needs to do is shut it all off. He only knows of one way to do that.

Who is anyone here to judge him? We all have vices. It's a part of human nature, and if Neal knows what works for him, then that's all that matters. It's nobody's business but his own, and he's sick of the FBI meddling in his personal life because of his criminal past. He always tried his best to keep the two separate, but somewhere down the line, the definition was blurred. That could be the reason he's under such close watchful eye, they know that. He knows it, and they know it. That's where he failed, letting the two get tangled together. The acknowledgement of this makes him angry, and he doesn't even realize he's gripped his hand into a fist until he lets it drop against the desk and the sound makes him jump.

An hour later, he's standing in front of the tall office building that Wilcox calls home, and he takes a deep breath before straightening his posture and waltzing in, flashing the receptionist a smile. "George Danvary. Here for Mr. Joseph Wilcox."

Obviously, Wilcox is too important to come down and meet him personally, so he's led up to the office, putting on a grin when he sees Wilcox stand. The men approach each other, and an unspoken challenge of dominance immediately engulfs the space around them. It's an alpha-male thing. "George, good to see you, my friend," Wilcox announces, his voice carrying a jovial ring it didn't have at the charity event. He grips Neal's outstretched hand with both of his, shaking vigorously.

"Likewise, Mr. Wilcox." Joseph shows him in, and he takes a seat across the massive glass desk that in reality takes up very little of the otherwise minimalist corner office, his heart sinking as soon as he notices the decanter and glasses perched upon a silver tray, innocently posing at the edge of the desktop.

Wilcox takes his seat, and pushes a number of files across the desk to Neal, raising his eyebrows at him. "You're here to make this go away."

Neal drags the files closer, leaning back in the chair and crossing an ankle over his knee, flipping through them, nodding as he reads. "I can do that." He shifts again, and sits up straight. "I'll go over these and let you know what I need further." He goes to stand, but Wilcox stops him, shaking his head and chuckling.

"You'll stay here. I am a huge advocate of _teamwork_," he murmurs, taking great care to place extra emphasis on his last word, overly enunciating each of the sounds. He shifts in his chair, which nearly struggles to accommodate his broad shoulders and figure, and reaches for a glass on the tray, sipping at it and motioning to Neal, who carefully reaches for his own, swirling it in the air without looking at it, his eyes still trained on the files as he digests the information.

He maintains this, and doesn't look up at Wilcox when he speaks. "For someone who puts so much into the rehabilitation community, you certainly enjoy a good spirit."

Wilcox chuckles at this. "It takes a good spirit to build good spirit. I, for one, support it with vigor, but I do not _identify_ with the degenerate and diseased of this great city. It's built on men like you and I, who exert control in every aspect of life. I'm not a failure." Neal looks up at this, and Joseph locks eyes with him. "Are you a failure, George?"

Neal swallows his fear, and plasters on a smile, raising his glass before sipping it, inhaling sharply through his teeth when he's done. "I am not." Wilcox studies him for a moment longer, then smiles, leaning back in his chair, sipping again, eyes locked on Neal.

Peter and Diana listen to this from the van, and Diana shakes her head. "We've got to get him out of there-"

Peter just lifts a hand, not looking at her, focusing on the audio feed. "Wait." She sighs, and leans back, returning her attention to the audio.

Neal is taking delicate sips as he reads through the massive stack of files, trying to spread his consumption out to avoid an incident, but Wilcox keeps refilling the glass and the stack of files doesn't seem to get any smaller. It's not long before he starts to feel it, shaking himself out of the daze. He shifts in the chair, placing the empty glass on the tray after a third measure, holding up a hand to signal he's done when Wilcox tries to fill it again. If he goes any farther, there will be hell to pay. He grins up at Wilcox. "You're going to want me on my game, Mr. Wilcox. That's enough for me." Wilcox raises his eyebrows at this, then shrugs, leaning back.

"Suit yourself." He shifts, leveling with Neal. "So. What do you think?"

Neal considers, shifting his position to match Wilcox's. "It's solid data, enough that I can work with it. We need to discuss how to approach it, there are several ways we can take this, it all depends on how we want it to reflect publicly. It's all down to image," he finishes, glancing at the empty glass, drawing a shaky inhale as he feels his body warm and cloud slightly.

When they conclude their meeting, they've decided upon taking a wellness benefactor approach, voiding the contracts for people of great promise, akin to a scholarship or grant. They establish their marketing plan, and Wilcox tells Neal he will be in touch once he's spoken with his guys in marketing.

Neal maintains himself the whole trip down the elevator and down the halls, but the moment he's out the door, he staggers slightly and bends at the waist, holding himself up by pressing his hands above his knees, taking quick, shallow, raspy breaths, trying to regain his footing. Once he's a little more stable, he draws a final deep inhale, and begins heading down the street, determined. Peter climbs out of the van, jogging after him.

"Neal-"

Neal waves a hand, still walking at a brisk pace, and he mutters, his voice catching, out of breath. "I need to go, I need...I need to get to a meeting," he murmurs, stumbling over his words.

Peter stops, watching after Neal, calling after him. "Let us drive you!"

Neal doesn't look back, just continues on his way, shoving his hands in his pockets, shaking his head vigorously. "I need some fresh air," he calls back, muttering. Peter shakes his head and grunts with frustrated exclamation, before turning back to the van. As soon as he's inside he directs up front.

"Follow him." The van lurches forward, trailing behind Neal, but they lose him when he turns a sharp corner into an alley. Diana scrambles to pull up Neal's tracker, but Peter waves his hand at this, scoffing. "Of course we had to remove it so he could get past security," his voice rising in anger as he hits the last word. He pounds a fist into the desk. "_Damn it_, Neal!"

Neal shakes as he walks, a combination of the biting cold and the rage stirring inside of him. He stops at the first convenience store he sees, and as he stands in line, anxious and shaking as he grips his purchase, he tries to rationalize this. He's royally fucked it all up already, what's the point now? The decision is made, and when he completes his transaction he only feels a tiny hint of remorse, continuing on the rest of his journey with the company of a small bottle of cheap whiskey that doesn't hold a candle to the Glenturret, taking deep pulls of it from time to time. He gets lost somewhere along the way, as a result of the slightly drunkenly-induced lapse of focus, but re-centers himself, shoving one hand in his pocket, the other loosely gripping the bottle throughout the rest of the walk. The footsteps he takes are heavy, and while he's not stumbling, his relaxed gait is visibly affected.

Once he arrives at the intimidating expanse of the church, he glances at his watch, taking a moment to focus, and notes he's about 30 minutes early. In response to this, he sighs, tossing the empty bottle in a garbage bin before plopping down on the steps and holding his head in his hands, elbows to knees, spending some time alone with his thoughts. The thoughts he hates, the thoughts he wishes he could forget, and the thoughts he would drown in a bottle in a second, given the opportunity. He's drunk, but he's not asleep, and as long as he's awake, they still plague his mind. So he just keeps his palms tightly pressed against his skull, trying to ease the pressure created by his crowded thoughts. The shaking has stopped for the most part, and the calm quiet that washes over him as the alcohol takes over is immediate relief.

A hand on his shoulder brings him back to the moment, and he casts a glance over, keeping his head down. "Peter," he barely mutters. The older man sighs, and sits next to Neal on the steps, keeping his hand on Neal's shoulder.

He takes a deep breath, then shakes his head, looking down. Neal glances over at this, then does the same. There really aren't words to be said.

Finally, after unbearable silence, Peter speaks, almost monotone. He doesn't even know how to feel. "You've been drinking," he notes, disappointed.

Neal shifts very slightly, but maintains his position, just giving Peter the faintest hint of a curt nod.

Peter looks down, then up, studying Neal, who doesn't return his gaze, and he lightly squeezes Neal's shoulder. "When does the meeting start?" he tries, after a moment.

"6:30, but…" He scoffs, and shakes his head. "M'not going," he finishes, his words slipping together.

Peter raises his eyebrows. "Why's that."

Neal takes a moment, then releases a shaky exhale. "I quit. I can't do this. I'm done."

"That's not the answer to-"

Neal cuts in. "Isn't it?" He finally looks up at Peter, meeting his eyes for the first time in this conversation, and Peter's heart nearly breaks in two. The immense pain in Neal's eyes is so strong, Peter can feel it in his own bones. "Isn't that the only option left? I've tried it all, Peter. Throw me back in prison if you want, I don't care. I'm just done with it. I can't do it." His words are getting progressively more slurred together, both with the emotion and the whiskey catching up to him, and he's rambling now, unsure of where he was going with his words in the first place. Peter opens his mouth and tries to speak, but Neal immediately cuts him off, throwing up his hands. "I'm absolutely _done_." His voice shakes with the closest thing to fury he's ever felt, and he leans forward a bit, hanging his head. When he hears his name called, he doesn't look up.

"Neal, she's calling you." Neal blinks, and turns from where he sits, seeing Melissa standing at the tall burgundy doors of the church.

"Why don't you come in, Neal? We're about to start," she offers, holding the door open. Peter leans over to Neal, quietly muttering.

"What happened to 'Nick'?" Neal shrugs.

"Someone there knew my real name. Blew my cover."

Peter blinks. "How did they know your name?" Neal just looks up at Peter, his eyes lost, and he shakes his head. Peter's guess is as good as Neal's.

After a moment, Peter nudges Neal, but he shakes his head, his muttered words slipping into each other. "M'not going in there."

Peter squeezes his friend's shoulder, willing him to look up. When he does, Peter scans his eyes, his voice low. "Neal. Where else are you going to go?" Neal looks down, and Peter sighs and stands, grabbing Neal's arm and pulling him up, guiding him to the door. In front of him, Neal hesitates, dragging his feet, his posture far from the confident stance that could take up a whole doorway that he usually possesses. They stop right inside the doorway, and Neal hesitates again, but Melissa leans in to Neal and murmurs something Peter can't hear, slipping a small round object into his coat pocket, and Neal takes a breath and starts again, making his way over to the circle and letting himself drop onto a seat. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and lowers his head, drawing deep breaths.

Peter pulls a chair from the side of the room, whirling it around and sitting on it backwards, resting his elbows on the back of the chair and his chin on his hands, just watching.

Melissa begins the meeting, guiding them all in the opening prayer, and Neal stays in his seat, head still down, seemingly unaware of what's going on around him. No one says anything or pressures him, they just continue with the meeting and let him listen.

The topic is decided to be Moments of Epiphany, and it's clear they all want to inspire Neal.

Their stories break Peter's spirit, and he leans forward a little more, studying Neal's reaction to all of this. The young man still has his head down, but his hands are now laced, and he rocks slightly listening to this.

As it goes on, Neal opens up, bit by bit, first by sitting up a little, then straightening out, then finally looking up and showing interest in the conversation. Peter smiles slightly when he sees Neal give a small nod in response to something someone says, and he straightens up a little bit, watching this.

Once they finish, though, Neal is hunched forward again, head in his hands. They all rise, and begin milling about, having casual conversation around him, some squeezing his shoulder when they pass, but there's no pressure in this room. Just love.

Peter finally sighs, and pushes himself up, making his way over to the younger man, kneeling next to his chair in an attempt to level with him. "How are you doing, Neal?"

Neal doesn't move other than a very slight rocking, and shakes his head. Peter sighs again, glancing down before standing again, dropping a hand on his shoulder. "Let's get you home."

Neal just nods at this, head still down, and stands, shoving his hands in his pockets and very slightly stumbling as he follows Peter out the door.

When they arrive at the Burke's home, Peter helps Neal in and gets him set up on the sofa, covering the already snoring figure with a blanket. He smiles when Satchmo joins him on the couch, and drapes Neal's coat over a chair, raising his eyebrows when a small round object drops out. Curious, Peter leans down, picking up the small chip and inspecting it, mouthing along the words as he reads.

_One day at a time_.

He glances at Neal, then crosses over to him, placing the small chip in his outstretched palm as he sleeps, looking over him one more time before shaking his head and heading upstairs to bed.


	16. 14: Come Alive When You're Falling Down

A/N: Hello there. Just wanted to take a quick moment to ask what you guys are thinking at this point, how you're feeling about it and where it's going. I really wanted to make sure I brought case elements into this story, and I'm having so much fun building my own case and thinking like a criminal and a crime-solver. I've also had a few people say they enjoy looking into the mind of the addict and it's helping them better understand this aspect of some people that very few ever shed proper light on. This is the greatest compliment in the world to me, I've been clean just over two years (10/17/2010!) and it was the hardest thing I've ever done, but also the greatest decision I ever made. I'm glad my love for writing is helping others, that's really the best compliment of all. I am so blessed and so thankful for all of you.

Chapter 14

Neal wakes before anyone else, bringing a hand to his pounding head, disoriented. He vaguely remembers it all, but distinctly remembers the pain in Peter's voice when he spoke. It was like the pain was a sentient being; it filled Neal up, replaced everything good inside of him. When Peter realized what was happening to his CI, the pain jumped train over to Peter, filling him up as well. It was contagious. That was the last thing Neal wanted, for his failures and shortcomings to affect Peter, but they had. The chip that Peter had placed in his hand has fallen from Neal's fingers during his sleep, and now lays on the floor. When he stands, he doesn't see it.

There's a gear in him, somewhere deep inside, always churning, always telling him to move, move, move, go, go, go. There's another cog somewhere in his machine that tells him he'll quit tomorrow. Just do it tomorrow. Wait till tomorrow. Because today, he needs this.

It's sprinkling rain, and he tilts his head down when he exits the front door, letting his hat shield him from the moisture as he carefully closes the Burke's door behind him. He's off the case. He knows this much, there's nothing he can do now. He'll probably go back to prison for blowing it, too. That's always how it happens. Something goes wrong in the White Collar Unit, Neal gets blamed.

Comes with the territory.

When he finds himself in front of the church again, he swears under his breath, bringing his shoulders forward to shield the rain. He jogs up the steps, exhaling deeply when he gets inside, feeling immediate relief from the warmth. It's relatively empty, there's not another meeting in here for an hour, but he notices a familiar figure sitting in a chair, her head bowed in silence. Carefully, quietly, he approaches, sitting next to her and studying her, not saying a word. After a moment, she looks up at him, and smiles sadly, looking back down.  
"Hi, Neal." He raises his eyebrows, then nods to her.  
"Sisley." He pauses. "What're you doing here?"  
"I could ask you the same," she replies, and he lowers his head when he smells the alcohol on her breath. He shrugs.  
"I needed a drink. I didn't know where else to go."  
She scoffs. "I'm recklessly drunk, waiting for AA to start, at 11AM on a Saturday."  
"Happened to me yesterday." He shakes his head, looking down. "I need to stop."  
She sighs. "Me, too." After a pause, she glances over at him, a lopsided smile on her face, her words slipping together. "Wanna grab a drink?" Neal looks up at this. It's like he's in a nightmare, and this is what he needs to wake himself up: load up on poison, fall to the floor. The impact when he hits the floor is what wakes up out of the terrible dreams. Neal has a response locked, loaded, and shot in less than a second.  
"_Yes_."

He stands, extending a hand to help her up, and she loops her arms through the window created by the bend of his elbow, holding him tight as he strolls with his hands tucked in his pockets.

+++++

The wine in the glass is swirling vigorously, threatening to jump the edges of the rim. The older male bartender stands off to the side of the bar, his palms pressed against the wood, fingers spread, eyeing them suspiciously, and all they can do in response is laugh over it; over their words, over the situation, over nothing at all.

It's not funny, not in the slightest, but if they don't laugh, they'll cry, and that's the point of all this. Numb it up so they don't have to feel the pain.

He thought he wanted to feel again. That's why he tried cleaning up in the first place. He tried, he really did, but when he tried it, it was all wrong. It wasn't what he wanted. It was too much. He almost felt more comfortable and at peace feeling nothing at all, regardless of how unnatural it was. He was dead already. When he brought himself to the edge, right up to the edge of the cliff, it was the only time he was reminded there was still a thread of life somewhere within him. It was like he needed to face death to acknowledge he wasn't quite there yet. That's just always been the way he works, though. An adrenaline junkie, even before he could walk, even when he was a kid.

When they stumble out of the bar an hour or two later they find the nearest place to sit, a bench at a nearby park. Neal sits up, and Sisley stretches out across the bench, her head in Neal's lap, looking up at him, still giggling. He smiles slightly, and brushes a bit of hair from her face. She squeezes her eyes shut in response, grimacing, and he blinks, straightening up a bit, concerned. "What happened?"

She squeezes her eyes a little tighter, then shifts so she's laying sideways, resting one hand on Neal's knee, and he reaches down and collects her hand in his own. Her other hand fishes through her small purse crumpled on the ground, and she pulls out a small and well-concealed bottle of whiskey. "You okay?" he tries again, and she swallows, suddenly swinging moods, sipping from it.  
"I don't know. I don't know anymore."

He tilts his chin up to the sky, his eyelids drifting shut, her words searing through him. It takes a moment, but eventually he swallows, looking back down at her, and she rocks onto her back, staring at him as she passes him the bottle. It's quiet, and they just look at each other, but when he goes to take a pull himself, he has to look away. The moment is suspended in the air, and there are no words necessary for a long while. Eventually, Neal shuts his eyes again before speaking. "This wasn't what you wanted for yourself."

"Never. This isn't how I was supposed to be. This isn't how it was supposed to go."

Neal raises his eyebrows, nodding. "Amen to that."

"Is it ever going to get better?"

He looks down at her. "I couldn't tell you."

After a moment, she shifts herself up, sitting next to him and leaning her head on his shoulder, and he sips as he listens to her. "They keep telling me it'll get better. They say I have to keep trying, and I'll feel better, but I never do. I always feel worse. Every time I try, it gets worse and worse and there's nothing I can do to stop it. Except just continue what I'm doing. It's never-ending, and the horrifying part is, I don't want to stop, because I'm scared. I'm so terrified of facing the real world, that I just hole myself in, numb myself up, and lock myself down. People I love, people I care about, try to help me, but they can't…" She just trails off after this, shutting her eyes. She's drunk and she's rambling, but it all makes perfect sense to Neal.

He sighs, shifting slightly so she can nestle a little closer in the crook of his neck, and he passes her the bottle. "I know." There are no words, beyond this, until a thought strikes him. He straightens up, glancing over at her. "How do you know who I am," he asks her. Sisley is startled by this, and bites a lip, looking down. "I deserve to know. AA is supposed to be a safe place."

Her head finds its place tucked against his shoulder again, and she sighs. "I know. I'm sorry, but you have to understand, I can't. It's not safe for either of us."

"Whoever it is, we can take him down. I'm friends with some very important people-"

"I know who your friends are, Neal. He said you'd have friends in the police, they can't do anything-"

"I don't have _friends in the police_, I work with the FBI. Whatever this guy's doing, we can stop it. I can help you."

She's startled by this, and almost seems uncomfortable. "You work for the Bureau," she ventures, trailing off.

"With," he corrects, his head dipping slightly to the side when he does.

She mutters the words again, looking down, then lifts her eyes to meet Neal's. "Joe didn't mention that…" she mutters again, casting her eyes down, but he interjects.

"Joe…" he murmurs, then glances up."Do you work for Joseph Wilcox?" The fear that takes hold of her when Neal mentions his name is palpable, and she doesn't respond. "Sisley, is he blackmailing you? Why did he send you after me?"

She draws a deep, shaky breath. "Joe needs a fixer. He's heard you're the best, and liked you even more when you showed up at my AA group. He uses us, he uses it against us. He preys on our weaknesses…"

"He feeds it. He's making you sicker," just like he was doing to Neal, it dawns on him. He already knew Neal was an addict before he even met him. Neal leans forward, his head in his hands, trying to gather all of this information at once.

"Is the FBI investigating Joe?" Neal just nods, squeezing his eyes shut, trying to figure this out, but he's drunk and getting drunker, as it moves through him. It's doing exactly what he wanted it to: make everything stop, calm down the madness of his crowded and screaming mess of thoughts, but now he needs his mind and it's impaired. "Damn it," he murmurs, blinking a few times, trying to focus. His phone ringing brings him back to the moment, and he fumbles slightly when he picks it up.

"Peter-"

"I swear to God, Neal, if you're-"

He cuts him off, nodding, moving things along as he gestures with his hand. "Yeah, yeah, I'm drunk- listen, the woman who blew my cover. She works for Wilcox. She can help us."

This actually causes Peter to pause, despite his anger, and he exhales sharply through the phone. "Where are you."

"I'll come t'you. Are you at home?"

Peter's quiet for a moment. "Yes. Don't drive."

Neal hangs up, shoving his phone in his pocket before turning a bit to face Sisley, gathering both her hands in his. "I can fix this. Come with me."

She searches his eyes for a moment, unsure if she can trust him. After all of the deception and lies, she has trouble trusting anyone, but Neal knows how that feels. It takes a second, but she looks down and nods. "Okay."

In the cab, Neal is staring out the window, fingers laced in his lap, bouncing a knee. Sisley is curled up next to him, her head nestled against his shoulder, and she's quiet. He's taking deep breaths, trying to calm his nerves. The fog has lifted a bit, but it still consumes him, and he lets his eyes drift shut, trying to find balance in all of this. When they pull up in front of Peter's home, the agent is already standing outside, legs shoulder-width apart, arms crossed over his chest, lips pursed and brows furrowed. Neal climbs out, paying the driver and helping Sisley to her feet, letting her lean into him when she stumbles. When they approach Peter, he just stands there, surveying the two of them, and Neal doesn't know where to start. Sisley keeps her head down, both arms wrapped around one of Neal's, and he keeps his focus on Peter, the two men searching each other's eyes for some hint, some clue, as to what it was that broke their relationship. Which moment. Which incident.

The tension is broken when Elizabeth carefully opens the door, sees the scene, and sighs. She rubs Peter's back while speaking to Neal and Sisley. "Would you like to come inside?" she offers, and Neal glances over at her, then looks back at Peter, eyes boring into his mentor's own when he speaks.

"Thank you, Elizabeth."

They follow her in, but Peter just stays where he is for a moment, dropping his head and eventually following them inside.

They're all around the table, Neal and Sisley sipping from the glasses of water Elizabeth has placed for them. Peter still doesn't say a word, just staring at Neal, who drums his fingertips against the table, anxious. He's disheveled, clearly intoxicated, and looks emotionally and physically exhausted. The curls of dark hair on top of his head don't go where they should, and he keeps raking his fingers through it, trying to tame the tangles. His eyes are glazed over, and he keeps clearing his throat, trying to ease the nausea quickly replacing the comfortable numbness he had been experiencing.

Peter clears his throat. "Neal." Neal looks up at this, and Peter looks down for a moment, starting over. "Neal. What did you find out."

The younger man takes a deep breath, and motions to Sisley. "This is Sisley, Peter. She's in my group. She works for Wilcox." Peter shifts his gaze from Neal to Sisley, nodding to her.

"How do you know my partner's identity?" he inquires, all business, motioning to Neal. She hesitates, but Neal nods to her, signaling it's okay.

"I've been working for Joe for a little over a year. The dirty work he couldn't have an on-record employee do. I was in his treatment facility, and he said he wouldn't release my records to my family if I did what he told me, and paid the blackmail. Even if I got into treatment, they would never forgive me. They would never speak to me again. My father was the only one who knew. Wilcox keeps my secrets, and I keep him in information," she finishes, her words slurring, and she sighs.

"And you were sent to look into Neal."

She nods, looking down. "I didn't go after him at the group, that just happened on its own. I had already been looking for Neal, Wilcox wanted to hire him as a fixer, and when Wilcox found out Neal was in my group, he was even more interested. He'd much rather employ one of us than one of his own."

"By one of his own, you mean…." Peter questions, confused.

"Someone normal?" Peter looks down, and Neal keeps his eyes on him.

"He knows you're recovering. That's why he pressed the issue so much," Peter puts two and two together, glancing up at Neal. "He was trying to get to you."

Neal just nods at this, glancing back down again.

Peter shakes his head, scoffing, and looks up at Neal again. "I am so, so sorry we put you through that, Neal."

Neal's response is quiet. "You didn't know. You don't need to be sorry. I should have seen it coming."

Sisley looks over at him. "You've already met with him?"

Neal glances over at her, eyebrows raised slightly. "He hired me last week. Kept pressing the issue of drinking, said if I wanted to work with the big dogs, I needed to act like one."

Sisley chuckles. "He likes the 'big dogs' line."

A shake of Neal's head tells Peter what he already knows: Neal feels fooled, and he's ashamed.

"Neal. We'll talk about the case in a minute, but right now we need to talk about you. This has got to stop, for your own sake."

Neal swallows, keeping his head down, and he nods very slightly, his voice quiet. "I know."

Peter consciously has to keep himself from rolling his eyes, spreading his hands out over the table. "You keep saying that, Neal, and then this happens."

Neal finally looks up at this, and searches Peter's eyes, his face pained. "I can't."

"Of course you-"

Neal almost leaps up from his chair, he's so angry. "Don'tsay that. Don't you _dare _ say that to me, you have _no idea _what kind of hell I'm living in. You think I'm having fun? You think I enjoy this, you think this is a game? I am _miserable_, every goddamn second of every goddamn day, Peter. You've got your home and your gorgeous wife and your dog and your job, and I have this. That's it. S'the only thing that's stuck with me, I can't…" He trails off and leans back in the chair. "I can't."

Peter draws in a sharp breath, studying Neal, who has looked away, avoiding Peter's eyes. "I'm sorry. You're right. I don't understand, but I'm really trying to. I've been trying to help you-"

"I know. Thank you," Neal cuts in, still not looking at Peter. Sisley is sitting next to Neal, her hands folded in her lap, quiet. Peter glances over to her.

"We're going to bring him down, okay? He won't do this to another soul."

She looks up, almost frightened. "You can't. If we expose Wilcox, we'll have to expose all of ourselves." She hesitates. "I love my family. They love me. They don't know, it's the only reason they speak to me. And the others, their lives, their families, their jobs, their reputations. It's all at risk."

"This isn't something to be ashamed of," Peter notes with concern.

"Unfortunately, not the whole world sees it that way, Peter," Neal informs him, his jaw tight.

Peter nods, glancing at Sisley. "Then we'll have to bring him down on something else. A man who can do things this heinous… this can't be his only crime."

Sisley thinks about this for a moment, then looks over at Neal. "I think I know what we can use." Neal glances up at this. "He's got another business, it's under the table, so he obviously doesn't want anyone knowing about it. He uses money from his charity to fund it. I don't know much about it, I just see the employee list. Just women."

"Human trafficking," Peter and Neal say simultaneously, looking up at each other. "Oh, this is good," Peter continues alone. "This is brilliant, you are _brilliant!_" he notes, ticking a finger towards Sisley. She smiles, looking down, and Neal looks over at her, taking her hand. She smiles a little wider, still looking down, and Elizabeth has to keep herself from awing at them.

"How are we going to do this? What do we need to do about George?" Neal considers.

"We need to take George out of the equation," Peter notes, frowning as he tries to figure this out.

"Who's George?" Sisley asks.

"Wilcox's new fixer," he murmurs, glancing at her sideways. He shrugs. "We could bring Arthur Fort in."

Peter scoffs. Arthur Fort, Pastry Baron of New York? Jones is good, but Peter highly doubts they could work with that alias to take down Wilcox.

"Diana plays a good hooker," Neal tries again, deadpan. Sisley gives him a sideways glance and he just shrugs.

Peter wags a finger. "That could work…" He looks up. "Who has access to information on the side business?"

Sisley searches the surface of the table, thinking. "His right hand, Jim Thompson. Handles all his numbers _on_ the books, now I guess he's working on them off the books, too."

Peter flips open the case file to the page of the man they first spotted Wilcox with at the event. "James Thompson."

Sisley nods. "That's him."

Neal wears a slight smile, glancing over at Sisley. "Oh, this is good."

Peter nods vigorously, smiling. "This is very good. You see this? You working better now that you've had time to sober up."

Neal scoffs, looking down. "Peter, I'm still drunk as hell."

Peter just rolls his eyes, shaking his head, and Elizabeth looks down, trying to hide her small smile.

"Neal." The younger man looks up, and Peter slides the chip across the table's surface. "You can do this." Neal picks it up, inspecting it, and sighs.

"I know, Peter. I know I can." He hesitates. "I just really don't want to."

Peter looks down, wearing a faint, sad smile. "I know. But you will be so much better for it."

Elizabeth, who's maintained invisible for most of the conversation, nods.

Neal looks down for a moment, then up at Peter, his voice strong and resolute. "I know I will."

"Does that mean we'll try this again?"

Sisley glances over at him, squeezing his hand, and he looks up at Peter. "Yeah. Round two, here we go."

He flips the chip in the air like a coin before slipping it into his pocket, grinning at Peter, who simply chuckles in response.

"Alright. Let's do this."

When he says 'this', he means catch Wilcox, but he knows Neal needs to get his own problems figured out before he can focus on Wilcox. He's worried that Neal will get too invested in the case and won't be able to focus on himself, that's his biggest fear in all of this. When he glances up again to see Neal grinning over at Sisley, who has dared to lean over and plant a small kiss on Neal's cheek, he chuckles to himself. He knows Neal will be just fine.


	17. 15: Breathe Me

Chapter 15

"It happened again," Sisley's words are almost unintelligibly slurred, and he can hear her tears over the phone. "Help me."

"Just stay there, I'll be right there, okay?"

"You don't have to come, it's my fault-"

"I will be _right _there. Don't move."

Neal hangs up the phone, pulling on his jacket, and Peter glances at him over the top of his newspaper. "Everything alright?"

Neal shakes his head, looking down at his fingers buttoning the jacket up. "I'll be back in a bit, just need to give a friend a hand."

"Sisley."

Neal nods, straightening the jacket in the reflection of the oven. "Yeah. I'll meet you at the office, okay?"

Peter nods as Neal moves for the door, then calls after him. "Neal." The younger man looks back at this. "I'm proud of you."

Neal looks down with a small smile. "Thanks, Peter."

* * *

When he buzzes on the gated door, she doesn't reply, and he just hears the door unlock. He strides up the stairs, two at a time, finding her apartment unlocked. He's careful and slow when he enters, finding her wrapped up in a jacket he had accidentally left there a few nights before, and she's clutching a near empty bottle of wine.  
Neal immediately goes to sit next to her, his heart breaking when she throws her arms up to cover her face; despite these actions, though, she presses herself against Neal, kind of half-heartedly, and she doesn't have complete control over her motions right now, she's just limp. He wraps her up in his arms, letting her have a moment.

"Hey. Hey," he tries, after a time, and she sniffles. "It's okay. It's going to be okay." The bottle in her hands, the culprit, threatens to spill when she drunkenly lets her arms fall to her knees, and he reaches over to take it, placing it on the floor by his feet. "I'm here."

She nods a bit, nuzzling in a little closer to him, and he places a few delicate kisses on her hair. "Thank you for coming," she manages, her words muffled against his jacket.

"Of course I came. Thank you for calling." He kisses the top of her head again. "Proud of you."

She smiles, and it's a little lopsided, but it quickly fades. "I keep trying, but I always end up here…" she sighs, trailing off and her words slipping together. She exhales in a whoosh, exasperated, and flails a hand slightly to display her point. "I'm so, _so _tired." He tilts her chin up at this, searching her eyes.

"I know. Just relax now. It was the hardest thing I've ever done."

"But you did it. And I'm still here."

"Hey," he demands, bringing her back to focus. "_You're still here_. This hasn't beat you yet. You'll be fine." He laces his fingers in hers, and kisses her forehead. "I promise."

She sniffles again, and after a moment, finally dares to tilt her chin up and press her lips to Neal's for the first time. It takes him a moment, but he reciprocates, and then just pulls her close, tucking her head under his chin and holding her tight. She draws her legs in, curling against him, and he exhales slowly, shutting his eyes and trying to contain the shaking that racks his body as he holds her. He has to keep himself together, at least for her benefit, as hard as it is. When all he wants to do is join her as she destroys herself, he can't, because he's found a reason to stay strong.

"I'm so tired, Neal," she murmurs again, quiet and slurred.

"I know you are. Just rest." She nods, and it gets away from her a little bit, like a small child nodding off close to bedtime. He sighs, staring out the window, then squeezing his eyes shut, bringing one hand to his forehead to press against his temple. This hurts, so much, that he can't help her, and now he knows how Peter felt. He lied, about quitting being the hardest thing he's ever done. Quitting was hard. It was painful, miserable, and he sank into the lowest depression he's ever been in- he's still struggling to claw his way out- but the hardest thing he's ever done is watch someone he cares about in so much pain, and being unable to do anything about it. He's had a few too many servings of that, this is no exception. "Please just rest," he murmurs, rocking her slightly, and he hears her breath even out into soft, steady inhales and exhales. Peaceful oblivion that he hasn't felt in the months since quitting, the kind that he misses desperately. "Please let this be the last time," he quietly murmurs, hoping it will be, but knowing it won't be. He knows she's not there yet, and it kills him.

* * *

"In order to get Diana in, we need to have access to Thompson. How can we do that?" Peter asks the group as they gather around the table in brainstorm formation.

Neal's off in his own world, still focused on the events of earlier today. Peter snaps his fingers and Neal looks back up. "Hey. Focus. How do we get to Thompson?"

Neal searches the files for a moment, holding up a finger. "We…need to get into the offices. George could go in for one last meeting, look around."

Peter vigorously shakes his head, crossing his arms. "No way, George is on the shelf."

"If I just went in-"

"Neal. Forget about it," Peter warns, stern, and Neal leans back in his chair, exhaling sharply.

"We could look at his rap sheet, see if there's anything we can re-open to spook him a bit. Sisley could get us in. If we dropped a bug and re-opened a case, we could get him talking, find out something about this side business other than its nature," Jones offers.

Peter considers this, but Neal looks up. "We don't use Sisley. Not now," he shakes his head, keeping his eyes on Peter. "Not right now, Peter."

"She's not doing too well, is she?" Diana ventures, quiet, and Neal shakes his head again, looking down to hide the pain on his face. The pain that pulses through him at every moment, the pain that gets worse with time, the pain he desperately needs to just bury, but can't. She needs him.

He drops his head against a palm, exhaling slowly, and Peter studies him. "Go home, Neal. Don't worry about this one." Neal looks up at this.

"You're kidding. Peter, we can do this. You need my help."

"Not this time. For you, it's personal. I can't let that become an issue. It's not safe for anyone involved."

"Peter," Neal starts, his eyes slightly wider than they were a moment before, shaking his head, slow.

"Go, Neal." Neal stares at Peter for a moment, unblinking, then just scoffs, closing the case files and pushing himself up, moving to head out the door. Peter stops him when he passes by, and leans over to him, close. "Go take care of her," he says, barely above a whisper, and Neal stops in his tracks, looking down. After a moment, he just nods, still not looking up at Peter, and walks out the door.

++++++++

When Neal hears no response from the other side of the door, he goes into a mild panic, fishing out the spare key he swiped from Sisley's drawer the last time he was there.

The victorious click and squeak as the door moves open soothes him, but that's all lost the moment he takes in the scene. She's there, on the sofa, curled up as tight as she can possibly make herself. He's not sure if she's asleep or awake, so he goes to sit next to her, wincing when he hears the broken glass crunching beneath his shoe. His body sinks down into the sofa, and he leans over, gathering her limp body in his arms and pulling her close, resting his face against her hair and deeply inhaling her scent through his nose. A gentle movement and a light noise from her throat indicates a slight stirring, and he glances over at her, just rocking her gently. "Oh, no…" she mutters, her voice barely above a whisper. "What are you doing here. How'd you get in?" she manages, her voice sleepily cracking.

His reaction is minimal, a light shushing and a kiss on her hair. "I'm here." She nestles up against him, and exhales slowly, swallowing. The nausea that grips her doesn't let go, and she wants to get a glass of water. She goes to climb off the sofa, but Neal grabs her arm, pulling her back before her bare feet touch the wood floors.

"Broken glass," he warns, and gets her settled back in her spot on the sofa, climbing off himself. "What do you need?"

A weak smile indicates her thanks, and she just manages the one word. "Water."

In the kitchen, he's opening cabinets and drawers, trying to figure out the locations of her glasses, when he stumbles across a few things. The first is the liquor cabinet. It's primarily made up of the cheapest wine, some mid-range whiskeys and tequilas, but the entire back row is very, VERY expensive wine. The kind Neal might steal. He glances over at Sisley again, trying to figure out where she might of gotten this level of poison. The second thing he notices is the small bundle behind the cabinet that holds the glasses. He reaches in, unwrapping the parcel from it's blankets, holding it up and letting it dangle. It's a rosary, but it's not any ordinary rosary. The entire thing is made of threads of gold, and every bead and detail is decorated in diamonds.

The brain that he's still letting recover races at a mile a minute, and he tucks the item back inside the cabinet, filling a glass with water and bringing it back over to her.

She sips delicately at it, avoiding Neal's eyes, and he leans into her slightly, taking one of her hands in both his own. "I'll take you to a meeting. When's the last time you went?"

She shakes her head, hands trembling slightly, and she keeps her head down. "No. You have work to do. You have to get him." She pauses. "I'd kill him, if I could."

"No, you wouldn't. You can't say things like that. They'll take care of Wilcox, let me take care of you. One meeting."

She doesn't need to be taken care of. She's just broken, that's what she thinks Neal doesn't understand. Of course, Neal does understand, he's been there, but she doesn't feel that way. He can't just waltz into her life and declare her his new project and fix her; but she'll admit, she's thankful he waltzed into her life. There's an unspoken bond, an understanding, between people like them, where they just get each other; but it's more than that. When her father, the only man who ever understood her, passed away, all she felt was lost in this deep sea of kind and willing souls who wanted to help but didn't know how. That kind of misguided support just builds false hopes, and makes it all that much harder when she slips and they give up on her. There's a glimmer of hope she feels, just for a second, whenever this strange man she's only just met wraps her up in his arms. She feels safe, and protected. He understands her, he _is_ her, in a way, and he's all she can aspire to be, with his success story and recovery.

He can't say he feels the same. He's taken with her, absolutely, hopelessly, completely, but he's not sure he would refer to himself as an inspiration. When he was forced to rid himself of the only thing that stayed with him through everything, the one thing that protected him from the darkness, it created a hollow, empty void within him; one he hasn't been able to fill or replace since. He's just as much the broken man he was before recovery, if not broken twice over, and it's starting to get to him. Every day brings a fresh hell; he finds himself swimming through darker and darker places in his mind, places he wasn't aware even existed. Unable to sleep, unable to think, unable to make all of it go away; he's a little more broken down with each passing day. Being here for her, however, at least slows down the process. It's not making it any better, but it's definitely stunting the depression's rapid growth as it tears through him, desperate to rip him to pieces.

"Not yet. Not while I'm like this," she murmurs, shaking her head.

"Like what."

"Drunk," she concludes, raising her eyebrows, staring at the floor. He sighs, pushing himself up from the sofa and grabbing the broom from the kitchen, cleaning up the shattered bottle on the floor. She studies him, running her fingers through her dark waves, and when he returns, he helps her up, guiding her to the bedroom. She climbs on, immediately curling up, and he pulls off his jacket and shoes, climbing in next to her, drawing up the blanket, and wrapping his arms around her. She freezes, but after a moment, nestles against him. His lips find her hair, and she provides a weak smile.

"How do you feel right now?" he asks, quiet. She hesitates, then nuzzles in a little closer.

"Safe. Warm. Protected." Neal shuts his eyes, exhaling.

"Let's make a deal. Whenever you start craving, just call me. I'll be here in ten minutes. We can climb in bed, and I'll hold you, just like this, so you can feel that way again. And if it doesn't work, then I won't stop you from doing whatever you need to do."

She smiles, but it's sad. "I wish it worked that way."

"Just try. For me."

She hesitates, then nods, turning in the bed to face him, tucking her head underneath his chin. "Okay."

He tilts her chin up and presses his lips to hers. "Thank you." She settles, then shifts.

"That glass on the end table, could you grab that for me?" He shifts, glancing over to the end table on his side, and reaches out for the glass. He takes a quick swig himself without thinking, before passing it over to her, and winces when he does; it's definitely not water. Sisley's feet kick the blanket down, and she sits up in bed, gripping the cup with shaking hands and sipping. Neal brings a palm to his temple, squeezing his eyes shut, and a light moan falls from his lips. The cycle's starting again, and all he can focus on is how warm and relaxed his body was the moment he felt the liquid rush down his throat. It consumes his thoughts, and he barely makes it through the next minute without absolutely losing it. But he does. He keeps it together, his head in his hands, and after a moment, glances over at Sisley, who has set the glass on the end table on her side. She's staring at him, horrified and remorseful, just studying him. "Did you…" she starts, but he just cuts her off, scoffing.

"Yeah."

"Neal," she starts again, but he holds up a hand, waving it off.

"It's fine." He takes a deep breath, then looks over at her. "I'm fine."

"I'm sorry, I didn't think, I-"

He gathers her up in his arms, settling back down under the blankets again, tangling his legs with hers. "Sh," he scolds, kissing her hair. "I said it was fine."

She sighs, just staring up at him for a moment, before exhaling slowly. "Let's go." His brows furrow, and Neal just studies her, shaking his head, not understanding. "The meeting." She hesitates. "I want help."

He smiles, very faintly, then hesitates. "Let me take you somewhere else. I know someone. She can help."

Sisley blinks, then nestles closer to Neal, now wanting to take it all back, unsure if she's ready. "Who?"

"A friend. Come on." He climbs out of bed, shrugging on his jacket and running his hand through his hair before flipping on his hat.

+++++++

"Wait here, okay?" Sisley nods, just staring at her hands as she plops down on one of the chairs right inside the FBI entryway. "I'll be right back."

Neal saunters over to the desk, and Sisley watches him, her hands shaking and her breathing unsteady. He exchanges a few words with the woman at the desk, and they share a small laugh. Sisley can't help but notice how smooth he is in every interaction; it seems making people feel comfortable and at ease is his specialty, his strong suit. It's the hand he'll always deal if he can.

When he turns back to her, he smiles, giving her a quick nod to signal he's ready, and she hesitates before standing, keeping her head down. Suddenly, he's right in front of her, holding her hands in his and leading her into the elevator.

"Elaine. Looking wonderful, as always."

"Oh, Neal," the woman waiting for them when the elevator door opens smiles and laughs. "So good to see you. You look fantastic, as well."

He grins, looking down, and he shoves his hands in his pockets. "Well, I wasn't fishing, but thanks." He motions to Sisley, who's quiet. "Sisley, this is Elaine. She helped me," he explains, pulling one hand out of a pocket to gesture. He shrugs. "She'd like to help you."

Sisley smiles, it's soft and weak, she's nervous, but she accepts Elaine's handshake. "Good to meet you."

Elaine smiles back, bright and confident. "Please, come in."

Neal sinks into the couch, draping an arm over the back of the sofa, and Sisley nestles in next to him. Elaine surveys the two of them for a moment, then settles into her chair, crossing her legs, her deep skin contrasting with the bright red dress she wears, adjusting her legal pad in her lap. "What can we do for you, Sisley?"

She hesitates, and Neal nudges her lightly, tipping his hat at her. He flashes a smile and she smiles softly, looking down. "I want to get better."

Neal feels his heart grow, just hearing these words. He's a destroyed man, not even half of the man he was, and it's taking days and weeks and months but he's slowly re-building himself. He's not there yet, but he will be, and he couldn't be happier to see Sisley take the same first steps he had to take. Elaine smiles after a moment. "We can do that."

Neal audibly sighs in relief, leaning back against the sofa, and Sisley draws her legs up, curling next to him. They're broken out of this relief when the door swings open, and Diana is standing there looking concerned. Sisley glances back at her, and Neal stands, tilting his head at Diana, face full of concern and worry.

She sighs. "Wilcox is dead."

Neal blinks, then furrows his brow, stepping away from the couch. He looks back to Sisley, and she looks just as shocked as him, but there's a hint of relief in her eyes. She glances up at Neal, and he's lightly shaking his head, almost angry.

"Tell me you didn't do this," he pleads, remembering her earlier words, voice shaking as he steps back again. Her hazel eyes widen, and she sinks a little lower in the sofa, shaking her head vigorously.

"Neal, no. I couldn't. I wouldn't. I'm right here!"

"You wanted to!" he challenges. "An hour ago you said you would if you could!"

She stands, going to him, but he steps back again, and Elaine stands at this, trying to contain the situation.

"Please, Neal, listen to me. I didn't do this. I didn't."

He's just staring at her, eyes wide, and he calls over to Diana, not taking his eyes off Sisley. He's let himself get very close to this woman he barely knows, and now he's thinking that was a mistake. "What happened to him."

Diana shifts, looking down at the file in her hand. "Toxicology says alcohol, lethal dose, main-lined."

"Murder?" he guesses, still studying Sisley, and she shrugs. "That's our guess as of now."

Neal grabs his hat, flipping it on and grabbing Sisley's hand. "You stay here." He looks to Elaine, and she just nods, waving him off. He's out the door and on his way up to the WCU in seconds.

Diana and Neal don't speak to each other during the elevator ride, except for one exchange.

"Do you think she did it?" Diana asks, glancing over at Neal. He just stares at the elevator door, showing no emotion.

"I don't know."

Peter is standing outside the conference room door, arms crossed, tapping a foot. He plants his hands on his hips as soon as Neal and Diana step out of the elevator. "What the hell happened here, Neal."

He raises up his hands. "I have no idea, this wasn't me. I'm a lot of things, Peter, but I'm not a killer. You know that."

"He was given a lethal dose of alcohol, injected. People don't do that, they don't shoot up alcohol. This was murder, and it was someone who wanted him to suffer the same way they did."

"Someone he was blackmailing. Revenge."

Peter nods, looking at Neal knowingly. "How's your friend?" he asks, and the question inside holds much more weight than the words themselves.

"I don't think she would do this, Peter."

That's true, he doesn't think she would, but the honest reality of all of this is that he knows very little about her. That is the mistake he made, he'd always been careful before but he got too involved too quickly. He won't be making that mistake again.

"Anything left behind at the scene?" Neal wonders aloud, and Peter shakes his head.

"Whoever did this was a professional, this isn't amateur work."

"Sisley's an addict, not a criminal mastermind."

"Is it impossible to be both?" Peter ventures, and Neal tips his head, knowing that Peter's applying the comparison to Neal.

"Thanks, Peter." He pauses, and straightens up, reiterating his point, voice strong. "I don't think she did this."

"Can you prove that?"

"I can't." Neal's voice wavers slightly when he admits this, but resolves almost immediately. "But I will."

Peter nods slowly, pressing his lips together. "You do that."

Neal cocks his head, studying Peter, and there's an unspoken challenge that is born from the moment. Peter has questioned Neal, and that never goes over well.

Never.


	18. 16: Born to Quit

A/N: Hey there! Would love to know what you guys are thinking at this point; I kind of lost my way with this story for a while but it's back on the right track, or at least, headed where I want it too. It's definitely a dark, honest-to-God angst story, and that's not for everyone, so for those of you who do enjoy this kind of fic and are showing your appreciation for it, I am forever indebted to you. :)

Chapter 16

"How the hell did this happen?" Peter demands to know, angry.

Neal is just searching the floor, arms crossed, head cocked slightly to the side. The only thing Neal wants in the world is to answer these questions; the honest truth is the fact that Wilcox is dead terrifies him. It means there's a lot more to this than what they're seeing.

"I couldn't tell you," he shrugs in defeat, lifting a hand to scratch the back of his neck. He finally brings his eyes up to meet Peter's, and his jaw is clenched as he strains to control his emotions. "Peter, I don't know. I wish I did. I'm sorry."

Peter throws up his hands and growls with frustration, pacing back and forth. "We're very quickly losing control of the situation, now it's probably going to be switched over to Violent Crimes." After a moment, he glances up at Neal, chin still tilted down, searching the other man's eyes. "If we lose this one, it's not going to look good, Neal."

Neal quickly casts his eyes down, slowly nodding once in agreement, and he grinds his teeth. "I know," he says, widening his eyes slightly and raising his brows, hopeless. After a moment, he glances up at Peter. "I know."

The older man plants his hands on his hips, pushing back the ends of his jacket. "How's Sisley?" he asks, after a moment, his voice taking a softer tone.

When they talk about her, it's usually in hushed voices. It's almost a taboo subject, they have to dance around it, walk on eggshells. "Not good. She's on the floor whenever I go over there. Haven't been able to talk to her more than once or twice." In the weeks that followed Wilcox's death, Sisley crawled within herself, shutting everything else out. Neal didn't often see her awake anymore, and he hadn't seen her at a single meeting since. It killed him.

Peter looks down, nodding at this, his brow furrowed. It takes a moment, but he looks up, face pained. "I'm sorry, Neal." His CI just nods at this, looking down. The woman he barely knows is very quickly sinking, and he's honestly concerned about how quickly he got attached to her. After realizing he hardly knew her, and after he accused her of murdering Wilcox, he sank, too. He felt emasculated, disappointing, less of a man. It was unlike him, out of character, to be that way, accusing and misunderstanding, and after the incident he made it a goal to really get to know her. She fascinated him. But now she was never awake whenever he came around, because she hurt so much she needed to drink herself to sleep. It tore him to pieces.

Peter wasn't oblivious to Neal's pain. It was visible. Neal was good at hiding a lot of things, but Peter always knew when he was in pain, even if it was damn near impossible to get him to talk about it.

It was kind of hard to miss. Already a slim man, Neal wasn't eating, and it showed. His bright blue eyes didn't shine with their usual mischief, they were dull, often red-rimmed or circled with tired blue shadows. It wasn't surprising to see Neal with a hat on his head, but they were now omnipresent, due to what Peter seriously doubted was grey from stress (he doubted the man could even grey) and more likely not having enough time in the morning to get his hair presentable. No sleep and constantly taking care of a woman who spends every moment in a drunken stupor will do that to a person.

When they're around the conference table with the rest of the team, Peter keeps his eyes on Neal, who looks much like he did during his first days of treatment and withdrawal. Head down, often held by his palms pressed against his temples; unless, that is, they were gripped in tight, shaking fists. The man looked ready to break, if not broken already. What Peter hadn't realized was that Neal had already broken, long ago; the moment he admitted to Peter his defeat and surrender, that he was at the end of the road and needed help just to get his life back to normal. Which it still wasn't.

They didn't need to wait to get in anymore; since the murder, they've acquired a warrant to search Thompson's office, but when it comes up completely clean of anything relating to both Wilcox's death and the human trafficking business, the case begins to chill.

It makes Peter's blood run cold, as well.

"I can't make sense of it," Hughes is slowly wondering aloud, feigning his confusion. "You go in after a murder to find something linked to a human trafficking business, and the entire thing comes up clean as a slate. Absolutely amazing." His last two words are heavy, and he draws them out, mocking Peter. Peter stands, eyes down and chin tucked in, nodding with his hands on his hips, just taking the criticism. "You would think the FBI was working with a play spy kit. Get yourselves together, Burke."

Peter just nods again, looking up at Hughes, lips pursed. "Will do, sir."

Hughes waves him out, and Peter stiffly walks back to his office, plopping down in his chair and holding his head in his hands as he breathes a sharp exhale. Neal appears in his doorway, quiet as he leans against the frame, arms crossed and wearing a faint smirk. "What did Hughes have to say?" The noise makes Peter jump, and he groans, waving an arm in dismissal. Neal backs up, lips in a small 'o', raising his hands. "Whoa… Easy. I'm gone."

Neal whirls around on his heels and saunters out, pulling his phone from his pocket and flipping it before holding it to his ear.

"Yeah," he greets, not even checking who it is.

"Neal? Melissa. Can we borrow you at the church?"

Neal's heart drops, and he stops dead in his tracks, straightening up. Peter sees this, and leans back in his chair slightly, glancing through the window at Neal in the hall, raising his eyebrows.

"Is she okay?" Neal asks, voice quiet, already knowing why she's calling.

Melissa hesitates, and he hears her sigh. "Please just come by."

Neal shoves the phone back in his pocket, taking long, quick strides to his desk and grabbing his bag, calling towards Peter's offices as he does. "I need to go, I'll be back."

Peter just watches after him, sighing and shaking his head before looking back at his work.

* * *

Neal jogs up the steps after he nearly throws the cash at the cab driver, his shoulders slumping when he stops at the sight in front of him. Melissa is crouched next to Sisley, rubbing her back. Sisley is sitting, leaned against the pillar closest to the garbage bin outside the church, her knees up and her head buried, arms thrown over her head. Two other members are standing a few feet away, arms crossed and quietly murmuring conversation, occasionally glancing over at Sisley and Melissa.

As Neal approaches, he hears Melissa quietly whispering words of comfort to Sisley. Glass crunches under his shoes, and he winces at the sound, looking down to see a shattered bottle of whiskey. He glances up, and Melissa motions him over. He immediately kneels next to Sisley, gathering up her hands in his own, pulling her arms away from her face. She keeps her face down, just letting her arms fall. He can see her face is pale, and when her head lolls forward, he's not even sure she's conscious. "What happened?" he quietly asks, looking up at Melissa. She sighs, and motions for them to step away. They do, and he crosses his arms as he listens.

"She showed up halfway through the meeting, barely walking. We got her outside, she's very sick. Paramedics should be here soon." He glances over at her, and rushes to lean her forward when she lurches to be sick again. A cold terror shoots through his bones, and he sighs in relief when the sirens begin reeling in the distance. Melissa goes to speak to them when they pull up, pulling out equipment and a stretcher. Neal stays by her side, holding her up and trying to keep the nervous shaking in his hands at bay. As soon as they roll her limp body over the pad, he stands, stepping back, and crossing his arms, one reaching up to hold two fingers to his lips, tapping his foot in anxiety.

Melissa is answering their questions, and he just paces, watching them get her prepared and medicated. When they wheel her in, Neal jogs over to the door, pressing his palm on the back of the ambulance. "Can I go with her?"

"S'there someone else who's next of kin?" the paramedic asks as a precaution.

"Just me," Neal reassures him, rocking back on his heels and flashing a grin. The uniformed man waves Neal in, and he climbs in after Sisley, sitting on the small bench beside the stretcher. He gathers one of her hands in both of his, head down, tapping a foot. The medic sits on the other side, checking her IV. He glances up at Neal.

"Girlfriend?"

Neal looks up and hesitates, then looks down at Sisley, studying her. He doesn't look up when he speaks, just trails his eyes over her face. "Yeah."

The medic nods, and as he's making an adjustment to her IV he doesn't look up at Neal. "She'll be just fine. We're getting fluids and oxygen in her, and as soon as we get her in, she'll be monitored." The medic looks up, and sees that Neal has buried his face in his hands.

* * *

"I don't know what to say right now, Neal. I don't." Peter admits this, standing in the corner of the room, and Neal is just sitting in the chair he's pulled up against Sisley's hospital bed, holding her hand in both of his. Neal shakes his head, dropping it down a bit.

"You don't have to say anything," he murmurs, his voice strangled.

"Has she woken up yet?" Neal just shakes his head again, still not looking up at Peter. "They'll take care of her," he reassures Neal.

Neal nods at this, and glances up at Peter, first staring right through his suit, then bringing his eyes up to meet his mentor's. "That's what they said," he notes. He glances back down at her. "I've got nothing, Peter. I have no idea what to do."

This says a lot. Neal always knows how to approach everything, and in this moment, he's completely lost. Peter sighs again, leaning his weight on the door frame.

"Call me if you need anything, okay? And call me when she wakes up." Neal nods, not looking up, and Peter takes this as his cue to go.

When she does stir, hours later, deep into the night, Neal is still wide awake, just staring at the floor as he holds her hand. He looks up when he hears her, and she blinks a few times, disoriented.

"Hey, hey," he straightens up, leaning closer, and she settles back in the bed after a moment, carefully turning her head to face Neal, her lips cracked and dry, and her deep skin has paled a few shades.

"Neal," she smiles, sleepy, and he barely musters a small weak smile in return, lacing his fingers in hers.

"Hey, sleeping beauty," he murmurs, planting a swift kiss on her hair, and she settles again, staring up at the ceiling when she speaks.

"What happened?"

He hesitates. "We had to bring you in. Alcohol poisoning." He shifts, exhaling sharply. "Sisley, this can't happen again, you won't wake up next time; I guarantee it."

She shifts uncomfortably, turning her head away. "I'm sorry," she manages, her voice cracking as she pulls away her hand, and he leans back in the chair, studying her as she's clearly wounded him.

"You don't have to be sorry. Just… don't. Not again. Promise me. This is the last time."

She faintly nods, turning to look back at him, studying his eyes. "You haven't slept in weeks, have you?" she murmurs, concerned, and he looks away, tilting his face down to hide his tired eyes.

"I'll be fine." He hasn't had much sleep since beginning his recovery, she's right, and he definitely hasn't had any in the hours since bringing her here.

"Get some sleep," she urges.

He grins, looking down.

"That's asking a lot, darlin'."

+++++++

"We got a hit on Josefson," Diana announces when she breezes into the conference room several days later. Neal has withdrawn, and despite Peter's understanding, he's frustrated.

"Who's Josefson?" Neal asks, glancing over the top of his newspaper, his legs up on the desk and his ankles crossed.

Peter blatantly ignores Neal's question, glancing over at Diana. "Give it to me."

"He's leaving the country, we got a hit on the alias through a charter jet company, he's gone in a week."

"So now we have a time-bomb to go along with this case. Great," Peter sighs, and Neal glances between Peter and Diana, frustrated that he's being left out of the loop.

"Where's he going? Who's alias? Thompson's?"

The glare Peter shoots Neal's way cuts through him, and Peter speaks through his teeth. "Are you going to do any work today, or are you just going to sit there reading the paper?"

Neal is taken aback by this, and folds the paper, his angry stare boring into Peter. "I'd be more than happy to do some work if any of you actually told me what was going on. It's kind of hard to get anything done when you're all consciously working to make sure I don't know anything."

Peter throws up his hands, muttering under his breath, but Neal catches the words. "I liked you better back when you were a drunk; at least you didn't talk back." Neal raises his eyebrows at this, shocked, and looks down, just staying there for a moment. When Peter realizes what he's said, he crosses his arms and lifts a palm to press against his forehead, regretting it immediately. "Neal, I didn't-"

"It's fine," Neal interjects, shaking his head and pushing himself up from the table, flipping on his hat. "I'm gone." He goes to leave, but stops right in front of Peter on his way out, standing right in his face when he challenges his mentor. "_Back when I was a drunk_, you hated who I was and you made damn sure I got rid of the only thing that ever made me feel at least a little bit sane. Now that's gone, and you want it back? Make a decision, Peter. You're a smart guy, maybe one of these days you'll crack me like I'm another one of your cases." His fierce anger subsides, and he sighs, glancing down, before looking back up at Peter. "Until then, forget about me. There's more trouble than good in my life right now. I don't need that," he finishes, his last words sincere as he searches Peter's eyes. The mixed signals he's getting are killing him, and it's only getting in the way of his recovery. When he leaves, Peter just stares after him, mouth open, unsure of how he was supposed to respond to that.

Once at home, he does get the much-needed sleep Sisley recommended for him, but not without searching for it at the bottom of a bottle first.

And then he's gone. The tension that has been building up in the months since he got sober is released in the form of blissful oblivion.

Babies don't sleep this well.


	19. 17: Leading Us Along

A/N: Hi lovelies. My friends know me too well. A friend just lent me a copy of the book she had to read for her Drugs, Behaviour, and Modern Society class, and it's absolutely fascinating. This topic speaks to me in a way I've never experienced before. Incredible. Anyway, I hope you enjoy. Major whumping. XP

Chapter 17

When the bottle touches Neal's lips, he almost feels complete. Just for a moment. Just for a second. As soon as he washes it down, wincing, the warmth spreads through him and he can just take some time to feel good. To forget about all of the awful things he's done, to forget about all of the pain he's caused, both others and himself. He doesn't have to think about how much of a waste his entire life is.

After some time, with just himself, and this bottle of scotch, and his lack of thoughts, he hits the point he was searching for. He goes numb, limp, and his body is buzzing slightly. It's the closest thing he's felt to happiness since this started. It's the closest he'll ever get.

Of course, as he always does, Neal takes it too far. What started as a few measures in a glass to help him relax… it quickly became filling the glass to the top. Then he abandons the glass entirely and just swigs from the bottle, standing on the roof and staring out over the skyline. For a moment, he seriously debates jumping. It doesn't take a lot to get him to consider ending the nightmare he lives each and every day. But once he looks over the edge, the moment has passed.

Neal goes to the sofa, still clutching his poisonous companion, and he's staring at the TV. It's muted, he's not paying attention, but in some weird, fucked-up way… he feels like he can live vicariously through someone else for a while.

Feel the pain, drink it away, feel numb, feel comfortable, watch TV… pretend this isn't real. Pretend all of it is just a nightmare.

It's just a nightmare.

After some time, Neal stands, stumbling over to the bathroom with the almost empty bottle in his grip. He decides to take a shower.

* * *

The morning doesn't find Peter well. He's stressed, and despite the numerous cups of coffee he's swallowed, he still isn't awake. At the table, Elizabeth is eating her cereal and just studying her husband, who very delicately picks at the bowl.

"Hon?" Peter glances up.

"Hm."

"What's got you so bothered?" she asks, tilting her head.

He shrugs. "Just said some stupid things to Neal yesterday. I'm bringing him coffee and picking him up to head to work to try to make up for it."

She frowns, and looks down, then back up at Peter again. "You think that will make up for it?"

He scoffs at this, setting down his spoon. "No, but it's a start."

When Peter has reached Neal's door, he clumsily knocks with his elbow, trying to balance the tray of coffee he holds in his hands. When he doesn't get a response, the reality of the situation doesn't even seem like a possibility to Peter; he's confident his friend is recovered. The only thing on Peter's mind when he sets down the coffee to open the door is how late they'll be. Once inside, he picks up the tray again, wandering in.

"Neal?" The younger man is nowhere to be found, but it sounds like the water is running in the bathroom. He glances towards the door, which is slightly ajar, and he raises an eyebrow. The tray of coffee is set gently on the table before Peter goes to figure out what's happening here, and he carefully approaches the bathroom door, knocking lightly. "Neal." Through the crack in the door, he hears the water pounding down, heavy. He takes a deep breath, and pushes open the door, praying Neal will immediately start shouting about not being decent, but he hears nothing.

It was a good thing he set down the coffees, because if he hadn't and was still holding them when he saw Neal, they would have immediately slipped from Peter's hands and clattered to the floor, and Neal isn't typically fond of the mess. The young man is tucked into a corner of the shower, clothed in a white t-shirt and trousers, his feet bare. One knee up and one leg out; one arm hanging limp at his side, the other barely hanging on to the empty bottle of high priced scotch that dangles inches from the tile. The water is running, pounding down on him, but he's oblivious in his peaceful unconsciousness. The water saturates him, his dark curls melted and matted against his forehead. His chin is tucked down, and Peter's heart drops. He can't see the younger man's face.

He immediately jumps into action, swinging open the glass door and pulling Neal out of the water, getting him leaned against a wall. He grabs a towel, trying to dry Neal off and warm him up, but his fears are realized when Neal's head drops forward, completely unresponsive. "Not again. Damn it, Neal, not again," he growls under his breath, leaning back to take a moment and figure this out. His fingers grip the younger man's wrist, eyes darting across the floor as he focuses, and is relieved to find a dull, but present pulse. He shakes him a few times, then just leans back, exhausted, searching the younger man's features. After a moment, he pushes himself up, keeping his eye on Neal as he steps out to call Diana, letting her know he'll be late. While he's on the phone, though, he hears it. It's muffled, but undeniably Neal stirring; keeping with the hallmarks of waking up after a night like his. Peter winces when he hears how sick his friend is, and finishes the call, waiting for the sound of retching to stop before he dares to enter the scene again.

"Neal…" he slowly starts, hesitant, and is glad he hasn't entered the bathroom yet when he hears the coughing begin again. He closes his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose, trying to relieve the stress that courses through him. Once Neal has finished, Peter hears a slight banging noise, and nearly jumps at the door in a panic, throwing it open. Neal is sitting up against the wall next to the sink and toilet and has let his head drop back, impacting the wall with a dull thud. It's not dangerous, just loud and unsettling. He tilts his chin up, exhaling through a small 'o', eyes squeezed shut, and Peter stands in the doorway, watching him. After a moment, Neal drops his head forward again, clearing his throat and wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand, not looking up when he speaks. His voice is barely above a gruff murmur.

"What are you doing here."

Peter sighs, and drags the chair from the table across the floor, setting it in the doorway to the bathroom and plopping down on it. Neal winces at the noise of the chair scratching his wood floors. "I came to apologize." He shrugs. "I brought coffee, was going to give you a ride to work. What I said to you yesterday was uncalled for, Neal. I'm sorry."

He doesn't look up at Peter when he speaks, his voice low and rough. "So you _didn't_ like me better when I was a drunk?" He offers yesterday's quip from Peter's own lips with no malice or spite; his voice carries honesty, pain, and a hint of regret.

Peter's shoulders slump forward, and he drops his head, shaking it. "No, Neal. You're your best when you're happy. You weren't happy then, you aren't happy now."

Neal scoffs at this, finally bringing his eyes up to meet Peter's. "You think?"

Peter sighs, and drops a hand on Neal's shoulder. "Are we gonna get you started over?"

"Oh, is that how this works? You own me professionally, Peter. That's it. You don't own who I am, or what I do. You think you can just come into MY house-"

"June's house," he corrects.

"-And change me?" He scoffs. "No way."

"So you're just going to quit."

"That's about the size of it.

"So what now? You were happy. Things were going good for you."

"Yeah, they were," Neal smiles weakly, remembering. When he looks up, though, the smile is gone. "Not anymore." In this moment, the young man looks even younger than his years, made vulnerable by this admission of lost control.

Peter sighs, glancing at the bottle sitting innocently on the tile. "Neal." He hesitates, then starts again. "You're in a lot of pain. I know you are, and I haven't been sensitive to it. I guess I just saw you as…unbreakable."

"Well, here we are. I broke," Neal murmurs, staring at the wall ahead of him.

Peter nods, looking down. "I know." He hesitates. "Please just let us help you."

"I didn't ask for help."

Neal's sharp tone makes Peter blink, and he leans back in the chair, sighing, his hands on his knees, voice quiet. "Yes, you did. You came to me, at the end of the road, and asked for me to help you. Because you needed it. Because you didn't know what else to do or where else to go. Because you were out of options."

Neal is just listening to this, faint tremors chilling through him, and after these words he has to quickly bring up a hand to wipe away the beginnings of tears forming in his eyes. He keeps his head down, nodding faintly.

This situation Neal has found himself in… it's destroyed him. It's biblical. He doesn't know if he can stand tall and face the world after this. "I can't," he pleads, looking up at his mentor, face pained.

Peter looks over at Neal, voice even and resolute. "I won't accept that." Neal goes to respond to this, but instead his eyelids lower as he sinks a bit where he sits, jaw clenching. Peter raises his eyebrows. "You okay?" Neal barely lifts a hand, indicating he feels sick, and Peter takes that as his cue to leave the room and give his friend some space. He winces at the sound, grabbing a glass of water and filling it, bringing it back to the bathroom when Neal's done. After a moment, Peter just leans forward a bit in the chair, leveling with Neal. "Don't give up, Neal. It doesn't look good on you."

Neal smirks, and looks down. "I know."

"You're better than this."

"I know."

"Prove it."

Neal nods, looking down. "Peter…" He hesitates. "I mean, come on. Look at me. I passed out in the shower, fully clothed with the water running." He looks down. "You can't get much lower than that."

Peter grins, and glances over at the shower. "So, what you're saying is… things can only go up from here?"

Neal scoffs. "That's not what I was saying."

"Sure sounded like it."

"I'm saying I'm in too deep, Peter. I can't claw or con or charm my way out of this one. White flag. I'm waving it."

"So you're admitting defeat to the opponent- that's me- and granting me permission to take control of the situation?"

Neal can't help but release a small snicker at this. "Sure. That's what I'm saying."

Peter grins and extends an arm, helping Neal up. They begin to walk out to the roof. "Let's get you back on track, kiddo."

Neal stops where he is, and glances over at Peter. "I will agree to _anything_ you ask if you swear to never call me that ever again."

Peter just chuckles. "You got it."

* * *

Peter lets Neal come to work that day on the condition that Neal just lets himself recuperate. And attends a session with Elaine. And goes to a meeting. And stays under Peter's watchful eye the entire day.

Neal agrees. Because he really doesn't want to be called 'kiddo' again; but that doesn't mean he's happy about it.

To say he was happy would be a gross over-statement. It's about the drinking, but more than that, it's Neal's inability to control himself. He isn't in control of his actions, his thoughts, his feelings. He isn't in control of what he does, where he goes, who he sees. He isn't in control of himself and he isn't in control of anything else around him. All he wants to do is make it all go away, but Peter is in control of that, too.

All he wants to do is run.

Every day feels like a fresh hell. It's more than the shaking. It's more than the headaches, never sleeping… or the awful dreams he has when he does. It's this deep, dark depression he's found himself in. He feels broken. Useless. Dirty. He's lower than he's ever been in his life.

All he wants to do is run.

Neal isn't the kind of person to feel that way. People like him don't take the easy way out. They work through it, and come out stronger; but he's been broken down, and most of his nights now follow somewhere along the lines of Neal spending most of the night in a miserable anxious sweat, some of the night dreaming those terrible dreams, and the remainder just standing on the roof, looking out over the skyline, wondering if tonight is the tonight. If tonight he'll muster up the courage to jump.

The conference room is bright, and bothersome. Neal is leaned forward in his chair, elbows up on the table and his head in his hands.

"We need to look into this practice- it's similar to black market arms dealers using expensive pieces of art or history for payment, more difficult to track. Some clues we've found in Thompson and Wilcox's financial records lead us to believe they were 'paying' bonuses to their girls with expensive items, rather than cash. They collected 100% of each payment, and according to their books, spend quite a bit on fine wine." Diana pauses. "_Really_ fine wine. Instead of giving the girls a percentage, they keep it all, and provide bottles of incredibly rare and expensive wines. Unfortunately, we assume our girls are in deep because most of them are from the treatment center, and end up drinking them instead of selling them."

This doesn't get past Neal, and he looks up, studying Peter, jaw set. "They're bribing them with booze?"

Peter just nods, not looking over at Neal, his arms crossed.

Neal is thinking about this, studying the case file on the table, shaking his head, when it hits him, and he looks up at Peter, his eyes wide. "Sisley."

"What about her?"

"She has a collection, in her apartment. In the back of the liquor cabinet. Ridiculously expensive wine. Wine regular everyday citizens don't have access to."

Peter raises his eyebrows at this, considering, then his eyes darken, and he glances back at Neal. "That would mean…"

Neal just nods, leaning forward, head in his hands, yet again.

Diana clears her throat, awkward, and Peter stands, giving Neal the two-finger point and beckon. Neal sighs, pushing himself up from the table and going to join Peter in the hallway.

"Neal…" Peter starts, but Neal waves a hand, shaking his head.

"I know. We haven't… if that's what you mean."

Peter just blinks. "Well, no, but I'm glad to hear that." He pauses, gathering himself after that. "We need to find out what she knows. She isn't telling us everything."

Neal sighs, tapping a foot and glancing down. "I know."

"Do you think you can get anything else out of her?"

"I don't know, Peter. I don't want to push her."

"A man is dead because of this case, Neal."

Neal sighs. "I know." He grins. "Can't say I miss him, though."

Peter scoffs, glancing down. "I know. You have every right to feel the way you do. But we need to get this figured out, or more people will suffer."

_I'm still suffering, Peter. Why don't you see it. _

"This may be our last chance."

_This might be my last chance._

"I need you on your game."

_Tonight._

"Neal. You awake?"

Neal shakes out of his daydream and looks up at Peter. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm good. Let's bring him down."

Peter grins, and slaps his friend on the shoulder. "Let's do this."

_Let's do this._


	20. 18: We Sleep Forever

A/N: Hello lovelies. I'm sorry it's been a bit of time, got crazy caught up with midterms and the like. This chapter is solid for me, it's emotional but it's solid. I've found the true tone and I know exactly where I'm going with it and how I'm going to get there. This story is so much fun and I'm so glad and grateful to see you all enjoying it, too. :)

Chapter 18

"When were you going to tell me?" Neal's pacing, and he's angry. He's gesturing wildly and the wine in his glass is sloshing around, threatening to jump ship. Sisley just sits on the sofa, watching him, her face carrying on odd mixture of sorrow, regret, and panic.

"Neal," she starts, but he cuts her off, stopping and staring down at her.

"Were you ever even going to tell me?"

She's quiet. "Of course I was going to." A slight hesitation. "It's not exactly the first thing I announce when I meet new people."

"That is so beside the point right now. This was important information for this case, and you told me you knew nothing about the side business. Now I'm finding out you're a part of it?"

"I'm sorry," she murmurs, looking down, and he just tosses up a hand, retrieving the bottle from the coffee table to refill his glass with shaking hands.

He shakes his head, sipping, then glances back down at her. "You worked for him. In the side business."

She nods, keeping her head down. "I ran the operation. Took care of the girls."

A weight is lifted off Neal's shoulders when he connects the dots; she's not an escort. He sighs, sinking down onto the lounge chair on the opposite side of the coffee table, slouching slightly as he slugs back his drink. At the end of his rope, Neal doesn't know how much more he can take. All he wants to do is run. She just studies him, and when he looks up and sees her looking at him, he sighs again. "Don't lie to me again." She nods, glancing down, and he shakes his head, leaning forward in the chair. "You know I have to tell Peter." She nods again, exhaling shakily, and he doesn't look at her when he drains the glass, grimacing. "You'll be considered an accomplice, if that's the position you held." Her eyes widen.

"He didn't give me a choice, Neal!"

For someone who's usually so composed, the immediate change that occurs in Neal's temperament when he drinks is incredible. He maintains himself well for the most part, but once he's set off, he flies into a rage that he doesn't even understand himself. He almost leaps out of the chair, straightening up, and his voice is low and it shakes with anger. "Those people needed help. They needed you to fight for them. You didn't. You kept your mouth shut. This could have closed the case, now it's hell frozen over!" he nearly shouts, and she sinks a bit into the sofa.

"Please don't yell."

"_I'm not yelling_." he yells back. This time it was definitely a yell. The only thing keeping him from wreaking havoc on his apartment right now is how drunk he is. If he stood, he'd be on the floor in seconds. He makes to reach for the bottle again, and she studies him, her voice small.

"Please don't. You're angry and irrational, and it's scaring me. You've had enough." He glances up at this, and he looks like a deer caught in headlights. This is the first time someone else has gotten hurt as a direct result of his inability to control himself, and he leans forward in the seat, scrubbing over his face with his hands. She continues to study him. "Neal?" He glances up again, and she's struck by how lost he looks. "Please don't do this anymore." His response to this is to immediately look away, focus on something else. He picks the skyline out the window, exhaling, his breath shaky. It takes him a moment, but he's finally able to form the words, quiet.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. Just promise."

He looks down at this, shaking his head. "I can't."

"Why not?"

Neal finally brings his eyes up to meet Sisley's, and his voice cracks. "Because I'm tried of breaking promises."

Sisley knows Neal is more than capable, it's just that she's realized he's not ready. He's just not ready yet. She presses her lips together, and glances up when she sees him push himself up and out of the chair. He doesn't say anything, just cocks his head towards the bed, staring at the floor. She smiles weakly, and follows him, climbing into bed next to him, and settling in when she feels him wrap his arms around her, kissing her hair. He smells like an intoxicating mixture of a fresh body wash, that natural, amazing man scent, and bucket-loads of cheap wine, but she's comfortable exactly where she is.

Neal, on the other hand, is not. He's miserable. He's drunk, and was feeling pretty okay with it, until Sisley mentioned it. Now he's uncomfortable. He's anxious. He's aware of everything he does; every movement, every breath, every mistake. All he wants right now is a couple more just to knock him out, but she asked him not to. Neal's fingers tremble as he trails them over her arm, and he occasionally presses kisses to her hair, but other than that, they're still.

All he wants to do is run.

* * *

"Neal?" Peter knocks the next evening, balancing the gifts he bears in his arms. When it remains silent, he sighs, pushing on the door and fearing the worst.

"Neal!" He stands in the doorway, holding up his parcels. "I brought tea. And biscuits."

He doesn't hear a response, and he looks down and chuckles, crossing over to the table to set down the kettle. "I know, it was Elizabeth's idea. She wouldn't let me leave the house without them."

He stays looking down for a moment as his laughter dies out, then glances up, searching around. _Where the hell is Neal?_

Then, Peter sees him. The packet of biscuits- the one Elizabeth had shoved into his hands before he left- slips from his fingers. "Oh, my god…" he murmurs.

Slowly, very slowly, he crosses over to the glass doors, taking great care to open them as quietly as possible. He does the best he can to keep his voice even, but it trembles violently. "N- Neal," he quietly begins, raising an arm slightly by instinct, preparing to run to him if he needs to.

Neal doesn't turn, and Peter's stomach flips over when he sees the ends of Neal's jacket whip around violently in the wind. "Neal," he tries again, a little louder, but voice still shaking.

"Yeah," Neal barely calls back, voice flat.

Peter swallows, taking another step forward. "What…" He looks down, shaking his head. He blinks, hoping this is a sick dream. He takes a shaky inhale and looks back up to try again. "W- what are you…doing?"

Neal emits a light scoff, still not turning back. "W'does it…it look … like m'doing?"

Peter's heart skips a beat when he hears Neal's almost unintelligibly slurred words, and he squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, stepping forward again. "It wouldn't kill you, the fall. It's not high enough."

"I know how t'do it so it works."

These words make Peter's heart pound. "Neal. Please…please come down here." He swallows. "Let's talk for a second."

Neal glances back, and Peter has to restrain himself from lunging forward the moment he sees his partner move a muscle. "We're talking right now," Neal says, wearing a lopsided grin. A small, quiet groan falls from Peter's throat, and he takes a careful step forward.

"F-face to face," Peter tries, shrugging. "Man to man."

Neal sighs, slouching a little bit when he looks down. "O-kay." He hops back onto the patio, shoving his hands in his pockets when he saunters over to Peter, grinning. "What d'you wanna say…" he starts. "…man?"

Peter gulps down his fear and panic for the moment, visibly relaxing, and he shuts his eyes, mumbling through his lips as though he feels queasy. "You…are on suspension. For a week. Under watch."

Neal drops his head down, sighing. "Peter…"

Peter just looks down, hands on his hips, shaking his head. He points to a chair, signaling for Neal to sit, and the younger man does, head in his hands. Peter pulls up a chair across from him. "I don't know what to say right now, Neal. I don't," he admits, defeated.

Neal sighs. "You don' have to say anything." Peter scoffs, incredulous, and shakes his head, glancing down.

After a time, he tries again, quiet. "Were you really going to do it?"

When Neal's head drops forward, and he searches the floor, Peter already knows the answer, shutting his eyes as he sinks a bit in the chair. He feels sick when he actually hears the response. "I was ready to."

Peter shakes his head, looking back up at his partner, who glances up in return. Peter just searches his eyes, trying to figure him out. "How much have you had to drink?"

Neal scoffs, leaning back in the chair and scrubbing his face with his hands, before leaning forward again. "Too much."

Peter sighs at this, glancing sideways at the end table, which is dressed with a large, mostly empty, bottle of whiskey. "This…" Peter shakes his head. "This isn't okay, Neal."

Neal faintly nods.

"This… you needed to say something. About this."

Neal sits back in the chair, crossing his arms, still searching the concrete for guidance or assistance.

"Neal?" The young man looks up, and Peter involuntarily takes a sharp breath inward when he sees Neal's face, carved from pain. "Why didn't you come to me?"

Neal looks down again, releasing a shaky exhale, then looks back up at Peter. "I didn't want to." Peter grimaces when he hears the pure, painful honesty in Neal's voice.

"Do you still want that?" Neal doesn't respond, and Peter shuts his eyes for a moment. "So why didn't you jump the moment you heard me?"

Neal looks up at this, and searches Peter's eyes. "Because I wouldn't want for you to see that."

Peter raises his eyebrows, nodding. "I appreciate that." He does, because it means he gets a few more minutes to talk to Neal, see if he can fix this.

Neal scoffs, looking down. "Why are you here?"

Peter frowns, glancing over at the kettle on the table inside, and the biscuits on the floor. He shrugs. "I brought tea and biscuits."

Neal lets out a small chuckle, looking out over the skyline. "And I appreciate that."

Peter smiles softly, nodding, his eyes searching the floor. After a moment, he sighs, pressing his palms to his knees to push himself up. "Come on, kiddo. You're coming home with me."

Neal glances up at this, raising his eyebrows. "You said you wouldn't call me that."

Peter shrugs. "You didn't do what I asked."

Neal considers this, then nods, standing, with some effort, and following Peter out the door, glancing back over his shoulder at the skyline one more time before he leaves, shutting the door behind him.

* * *

Neal is sitting on the sofa of the Burke's home, head in his hands, while Peter sits in the armchair, just studying him. Neal hears clattering steel in the kitchen, and glances over his shoulder at El. "Really? Stashing the knives?"

She stops, and looks up, shrugging. "I like you."

Peter chuckles at this, looking at his hands, and Neal reclines in the sofa, draping an arm over the back. "You're really gonna keep me here?"

Peter raises his eyebrows, glancing up at Neal. His face is stone, his voice no longer shaking, even though he still feels his insides twisting at the sight of Neal precariously perched on the edge of the roof. "Yes. I am. At least a month staying with us. Five days on watch."

Neal glances up at this. "Suicide watch," he says, confirming.

Peter shrugs. "I haven't given up on you yet, Neal."

Neal looks down, nodding, then looks back up at Peter, his face pained. "I have."

Peter shrugs. "Too bad. I haven't." A weak grin tugs at Neal's lips, and he exhales shakily.

"Okay." The vertebrae of his back collapse downward, stacking forward as he hunches over, closing himself in, his hands over his head. "Okay." Peter is quiet, just studying Neal. After a moment, the younger man looks up. "I'm sorry."

Peter nods, not looking up, and Neal raises his eyebrows, glancing down.

This hurts so much. He's never felt so empty. It's like his body climbed back onto the roof with Peter, but his soul jumped ship and splattered across the pavement. He's hollow.

"So am I," Peter murmurs after a while. He can't believe he didn't see this coming. He always viewed Neal as unbreakable. He didn't anticipate what would happen when the man actually broke.

El approaches the sofa from behind, wrapping her arms around Neal in a hug. "I'm glad you're here," she says, quiet, and Neal shuts his eyes, leaning back into El's hug. Peter looks down.

When Elizabeth finally straightens up, she goes to sit with Peter, studying Neal, who glances up, looking lost. "What now?"

Peter shrugs after a moment, settling back in the chair. "First things first, you'll see Elaine. And the doctor. See if we can figure out what's going on in that head of yours."

Neal scoffs at this. He knows what's going on in his head. He's lost his mind. He's fallen farther than he knew he was capable of. Once you start falling, there's no way to stop yourself until you hit the ground. He just wanted to hit the ground.

"That sounds about right," Neal says, sighing.

When Peter and Elizabeth retire to bed a few hours later, Neal finds himself alone again, feeling more alone than he's ever felt in his life. He leans forward on the sofa, head in his hands, taking deep, shaking breaths, and he thinks about what he's going to do now.

Now that he's not dead.

* * *

"Neal."

Neal sighs. "Elaine."

"I'm glad to see you." Neal leans back against the sofa, not looking up, and she shifts in her chair. "Do you what to tell me how you're feeling?"

He still doesn't look up. "How do you think I'm feeling?"

"I'd like it if you could tell me. In your own words."

He cocks his head to the side, voice deadpan. "I wanted to jump off the roof of my apartment."

"Why's that?"

"Because I don't want to live anymore."

She sighs, leaning back in her chair. "Do you know what reasons you have for feeling that way?"

He shakes his head, scoffing. "I'm not doing this right now."

She tilts her head. "When would be a better time?" He sighs, pushing himself up off the sofa and going to the door. She calls after him. "I'll be here when you're ready, Neal. Stay safe."

He ignores her, letting the door slam behind him on his way out. Peter sees him in the hall, holding up his hands to stop the younger man. "Whoa, whoa, whoa. Where do you think you're going?"

"Home," he mumbles. "I don't feel well."

Peter just stops, staring after him, then reaches for his phone in his coat pocket. "You'll go to my house. I'll have Elizabeth come get you."

Neal stops, and shakes his head, not turning around. "I can catch a cab. Don't bother Elizabeth."

Peter shrugs. "She's just down the street."

It takes Neal a moment, but he realizes, whirling around. "You had her on call." At this, Peter just maintains eye contact with Neal, and the younger man clenches his jaw. Peter just sighs, looking down.

"She can be here in a minute and a half. I'll wait with you downstairs."

Neal just nods after a moment, knowing he doesn't have any other choice, and wanders into the elevator, holding the door open for Peter to follow him in.

Once they get outside, Elizabeth is already waiting, her arms crossed and a grin on her face. Neal sighs, then steps up to El, turning back to face Peter. "Thanks," he murmurs, and Peter just nods, looking down.

When they slide into the car, Elizabeth keeps glancing over at Neal. "How are ya, hon?" Neal shakes his head, staring out the window. She sighs before starting again. "Have I told you how happy I am that you're here?"

He almost rolls his eyes, but he can't do that to El. He knows she means it. "Thanks," he mutters, still looking out the window.

When they arrive back at home, Elizabeth is sitting across the table from Neal, just studying him. He's looking down, drumming his fingers against the wood. She sighs, and he glances up.

"Hm."

A brief moment of hesitation passes while she prepares herself. "Neal…" she starts, then pauses again, not sure if she should venture here. "We don't want to lose you."

He raises his eyebrows in response to this, still looking down. "I know."

"Please don't leave us."

This causes him to look up, and he studies her pained face. "I'm not happy," he admits, and she sighs, glancing to the side before looking back up at him.

"I know. I won't pretend you are. And I won't pretend it will get better right this moment. Maybe not even soon. But I can say it will." He scoffs. "It really will, Neal. I promise. Your life has value. You're important, to a lot of people. Myself included. I don't…" she hesitates, swallowing. "I don't think Peter could live with himself if you did this. I don't know if he would be able to handle it. He cares about you, Neal. Very much."

He keeps his eyes down, giving her a brief nod. "I know."

"So why would you do this?"

Not a single logical answer comes to Neal's mind, but he knows he wants it more than anything. He shakes his head. "I couldn't tell you."

His phone rings, shaking him out of the fog, and he glances at it. Sisley.

"Hello?" he starts, and he hears her giggle over the line, her words slurred.

"Neal, come over, I have something for you!"

His eyes drift shut, and he tilts his chin upward, sighing. El raises her eyebrows. "You're drunk."

She goes on to tell him she is, in fact, drunk, and needs him to come join her. She's finally opened a bottle of the incredible wine Wilcox and Thompson paid her with and wants him to try it. She swears it's absolutely life-changing.

"I can't," he admits, voice flat. "I'm on house arrest." He glances up at El, who manages a weak smile._ It's not so bad here with me, is it?_

This causes Sisley to laugh again in disbelief. "Whaaaaaat?! W'did you do?"

He sighs, searching the ceiling. "I'll talk to you about it later. Call me when you're sober." He hangs up at this, letting the phone slip from his fingers and clatter to the table, and Elizabeth winces when she hears it begin buzzing again. He silences it, leaning forward and putting his head in his hands.

* * *

That night, they're all sitting around the table; Neal, Peter, and Elizabeth. Satchmo is sitting by Neal's feet, collecting the small portions Neal passes over to him.

They're quiet, until a knock on the front door startles them into speech.

"Are you expecting anyone?" El asks, glancing up at Peter, and he frowns, and shakes his head, pushing himself up to go to the door.

Neal just glances over his shoulder, looking to see who's there, and he hears quiet murmurs as Peter explains something to whoever is at the door. Neal sighs and looks back down when Peter leads Sisley in. She stands at the entry-way to the kitchen, just staring at Neal, who doesn't look at her. "Neal… I'm so sorry."

Neal just raises his eyebrows, glancing over at Peter. "You told her." Peter sits at his seat, not responding and going to pick up his fork and knife. Neal pushes himself out of the chair, leading Sisley to the living room, and they sit on the sofa together, Sisley gathering his hands in her own. "Why?" is all she can say, and Neal scoffs.

"Why do you think?"

She shakes her head, looking down. "Neal…Neal, I had no idea it was this bad."

He shrugs. "Now you know."

It was bad when he was ready to do it, he didn't think he could get any lower; but waking up alive was the worst thing he had ever experienced. His drunken attempt at taking his own life ended in him passing out on the Burke's sofa the moment they got inside. When he opened his eyes the next morning, the crushing reality that he still had his life came crashing down on him and knocked the wind out of him.

They stay there like that for a time, and when Peter and Elizabeth eventually move to the living room to head upstairs, they see that Neal and Sisley have fallen asleep on the sofa, curled up together. Sleep is an uncommon thing for people like them; natural sleep, anyway. Real, legitimate, organic sleep, not brought on by a pill or a bottle. It's hard to come by.

It's good for him. Neal has been through something incredibly traumatic, Peter isn't surprised his friend is beyond exhausted, so despite the unorthodox method, and the young woman he barely knows sleeping in his house, Peter lets it slide.

He smirks at them, before heading upstairs.


	21. 19: Come Clean

A/N: Hello there! First order of business, only a few more chapters left! I'm so excited to deliver you guys the ending, it's been an absolute blast. It's definitely a lot darker and angstier (the story, not the ending) than I first intended, but I'm really enjoying it. I would definitely love to hear what you guys think!

Second order of business: the Season Finale. Bawled my eyes out. That is all.

Love all of you. :)

Chapter 19

"My hands are tied here, Neal."

"And I get that, I do. I really do, but this is important."

"I understand. But you are two days into a five day watch."

"Suicide watch," Neal reminds him, almost as though to poke fun at the lengths Peter has taken now. Peter doesn't find it funny one bit.

"I can't let you go by yourself."

"Sisley can take me."

"Sisley is currently under investigation in this case. I wouldn't trust it. And she'll most likely be drunk. You can't be around that, you know that." Ever since Neal told Peter about her involvement in the human trafficking business, she has been steadily rising to the top of the list of suspects in Wilcox's murder.

Neal sighs, crossing his arms and searching the floor. "Yeah. Yeah, I do know that." He looks up again, his face pained. "It's not getting any easier, it's getting harder."

"The best things in life never come for free."

Neal smirks. "I'll remember that. You been hanging around Mozzie?"

Peter shrugs. "I may have. We actually have quite a bit in common."

Neal chuckles at this. "Enlighten me."

Peter considers, then locks his eyes on Neal's. "We both want you to stick around."

Neal sighs, looking at the floor. It takes him a moment, but he finally speaks, still looking down. "I need a meeting today, Peter. Please."

Peter nods quickly. He knows, he knows. "El can take you."

"I'm not pulling her out of work again."

"Jones will take you."

"You're kidding."

"Diana will take you."

Neal throws up his hands. "Damn it, Peter, forget I asked."

Neal knows his reputation doesn't help him here, but after waking up alive, a shift has occurred within him. All he wants is to beat this thing. He tried to end it all, but that didn't work, and he can't keep living like this, so his only option is to fix it. He has to, and the one thing he needs right now is to be reminded by a group of people in the same situation as him that it's possible. All he wants to do is go to a meeting, but he understands why Peter doesn't trust him.

The older man is studying him, and he leans back in his chair, crossing his arms behind his head, and after a moment, he looks down, sighing. He doesn't look up when he speaks. "Come on. Let's go." He shifts to get up, and Neal just watches him, raising his eyebrows. Peter glances over at him when he's shrugging on his coat. "I'll take you."

Neal shakes his head, looking down. "No, no way. I'm not getting in the way of your work," he finishes, studying the desk, and Peter breezes past him on his way out the door, stopping right outside the office to glance back at Neal.

"Are you coming or not?"

Neal sighs, and shoves his hands in his pockets, following Peter out the door.

* * *

As soon as Peter and Neal enter the space, the tension is palpable. Neal grabs two cups of coffee, bringing one over to Peter and sipping at his own, his other hand in his pocket. They both have to consciously keep themselves from sticking out their tongues and grimacing at the taste, and Peter chuckles, shaking his head. The humor is lost, however, when Peter's face turns to stone, and Neal turns around to find what has sparked this reaction.

Sisley has wandered in the door, clearly having trouble staying on her feet, and Neal just sighs, keeping his head down. He prays things go well and she doesn't make a scene.

Of course, that would only happen in a world where things go right for Neal, and unfortunately, that's not the world he lives in. He squeezes his eyes shut when he hears her uneven steps behind him, bringing two fingers to his temple. Peter takes a sharp inhale, bracing himself and straightening up, putting his hands on his hips so his badge glimmers when the light from the stained glass windows catches it.

"Sisley," he nods to her, voice stern. She doesn't even acknowledge Neal, just breezing past him and getting in Peter's face.

"Why're you looking into me," she demands, slurring, and Peter stays the course, studying her.

He cocks his head. "We have reason to believe you are involved in the case I'm currently investigating."

She giggles, leaning over against Neal to keep from falling, and he frowns, lifting her up off of him. Once she's steady, he steps slightly to the left, keeping his distance. This is work, not play. Her face falls slightly, and she looks down.

"What reasons are those?" she asks, quiet, and Peter raises his eyebrows, crossing his arms.

"Those aren't details I'm permitted to discuss with you." He shifts, nodding once at Neal, who looks down in response, shoving his hands in his pockets.

She glances up at Neal. "Can I talk to you for a second?"

He sighs. "We're about to start-"

"Please."

After a moment, he gives Peter the nod that it's okay for him to take a seat, and they walk a few feet away.

When they're out of earshot, she looks up at him, her face pained and her voice cracking. "They think I did it."

"I know-"

"They searched my home, Neal. They found some things."

Neal stands up a little straighter. "What kinds of things?"

She looks through him, avoiding making contact with his eyes. "The wine. The money books." She pauses, and her voice is a little lower. "The needles."

Neal furrows his brows. "What?"

"The same kind used to kill Wilcox. They think I did it."

He just looks down, and speaks after a moment. "Shit."

"Yeah."

"We're going to go take our seats, you should do the same," Melissa calls over, and Sisley sighs, looking back at Neal, her face pleading. He just gives her a reassuring look, shaking his head to tell her now isn't the time.

When they sit, Neal leans back a bit in the chair, sighing as he rolls up his sleeves, and Peter glances over at him. A small detail catches his eye, and he double-takes. He squeezes his eyes shut, exhaling sharply, and stands just as Melissa is welcoming the group. He quickly yanks Neal up by the arm and drags him outside, Neal stumbling behind him, confused.

As soon as they're outside, Neal just shakes his head, eyes wide. "What the…what the _hell_, Peter!"

Peter is pacing, his hands on his hips, furious, and he glances up at Neal and stops, pointing a finger at his friend. "No, no, you don't get to say that to me."

"What are you talking-"

Peter cuts him off, grabbing Neal's shirt and pushing up the sleeve a bit more, holding up his bruised and pock-marked arm. "_This_. This, is what I'm talking about. What the hell is this, Neal?!"

Neal stops, just staring at Peter, who is taking heaving breaths, and after a moment, Neal glances down, searching the concrete, mouth open slightly as he tries to find the words. "That's… I stopped."

"Bullshit, you stopped; these aren't more than a week old."

Neal pauses again, this time searching the sky, and he yanks his arm back, crossing them behind his head as he paces a bit, exhaling sharply. When he finally stops again, he brings his eyes up to meet Peter's, which burn with anger, and a tinge of sadness. Neal's voice is barely above a quiet mutter. "Listen." He hesitates, and tries again. "_Listen_. It happened about a week ago. I tried it before you found me on the roof."

Peter stops at this, blinking, then he searches the ground, bringing two fingers to his temple. It takes a moment, but he connects the dots: it was another attempt of Neal's to take his life. "You…"

Neal doesn't move, studying the ground. "Yeah." He pauses. "I haven't used...since."

Peter inhales shakily, before glancing back up at Neal, his eyes sad, but tinged with darkness. He feels so betrayed. "I don't believe you."

Neal sighs, throwing up his hands before pacing around a bit. "I don't expect you to." Peter studies his friend for a moment, narrowing his eyes with concern, lightly shaking his head. Trying to figure him out. Neal glances up, stopping when he notices Peter's stare boring into him. "What."

Peter shakes his head again, scoffing and glancing down, his voice sad. Almost incredulous. "What the hell happened to you?"

Neal blinks at this, then looks up at the sky, crossing his arms and tapping a foot. After a moment, he looks down. "I'm sorry, Peter."

The worst part of all of this is disappointing Peter, time and time again. No matter how much the older man tries to help him, it's all for nothing, because Neal just can't get his shit together. "I don't even know who you are anymore."

Neal shrugs at this, eyes cast down as he raises his eyebrows. "Neither do I."

A quick shake of Peter's head tells Neal he's not done. "It's disappointing. I put everything into rebuilding you and your life and your career. We had a good thing going, you didn't need to go and screw it up like this."

Neal closes in, crossing his arms, and looks down, nodding.

"Let's…" Peter sighs. "Let's get you inside. We'll talk about this later."

Neal raises his eyebrows, just nodding. As though he'll be able to focus on anything happening in the meeting now that Peter has called him a disappointment.

Later that night, Peter has approached Neal at the table, sliding a pamphlet across the surface.

"You have got to be kidding me," Neal says, glancing over it.

"Deadly serious, Neal."

"So now this is an ultimatum."

"It's a decision I'm asking you to make. It very well may save your damn life, I wouldn't pass it up."

The table of the Burke's home has become a war zone, and Neal is shaking with both anxiety and rage as he looks over the details of what Peter wants him to do.

"But if I don't go, you'll throw me back in jail."

Peter pauses for a moment, and looks down, nodding. "Yes. Yes, I will, because this is what I should have done when this first started, but I wanted to give you the benefit of the doubt and see if you could work it out yourself. You couldn't. I don't have any other choice, Neal. I'm not giving up on you."

"That's not really your decision to make."

"It kind of is."

Neal sighs, scanning over the details of the program. "What the hell am I even going to do all day? Talk about my problems? I'll lose my mind, Peter."

"That's not what this is, Neal. Just read what it says."

Neal sighs, scanning over the pages, drumming his fingers on the table. After a moment, he glances back up at Peter, sighing again, admitting defeat. "Okay."

Peter looks up at this. "Okay?"

Neal nods, scoffing and pushing the pamphlet back across the table. "Yeah, okay. It's not like you're giving me any other option."

A small smile plays on Peter's lips. "You're right. I'm not."

"Peter-"

"Don't. You'll forgive me someday."

Neal scoffs with a weak smile. "Doubtful."

* * *

The scene is reminiscent of a child's first day of school. Peter and Elizabeth hold Neal's bags, basking like proud parents, and Neal is just standing there sulking. Well, as close to sulking as Neal can get.

This is going to be a nightmare.

Peter shrugs when they wander into Neal's new home, frowning. "Nice digs. Not bad."

Neal glances over at him as he pulls the messenger bag off his shoulder. "Please never say 'digs' ever again." Elizabeth chuckles as she makes Neal's bed, and he rushes over. "Hey, hey, I've got that. You relax."

Elizabeth smiles, doting on him. "_You_ go relax, you're about to begin camp."

"Oh, we're calling it camp now."

Peter shrugs. "It sounds more exciting that way."

Neal glares over at Peter. "Let's not make this something it isn't. You're forcing me to be here. I'm not exactly thrilled."

A small smile dances on Elizabeth's lips as she finishes the bed, and Neal sits on a chair in the corner, flipping through the orientation packet. This is college. This is summer camp.

This is an absolute nightmare.

"7 AM, Rise and shine."

"At least they're positive about it," El offers, shrugging.

"Is the shining required?" Peter wonders aloud, and Neal stifles a laugh as he continues reading.

"8 AM, Breakfast, Rounds, and Community Group. 8:45 AM, Daily Preparation…what does that even mean?" Peter chuckles. "9 AM, Lecture- see, this is college." El snickers, and Peter stands by the window, looking out at the view, his hands clasped behind his back.

"-11 AM, Big Group. 12 PM, Lunch. 12:45 PM, Free Time. 2 PM, Cognitive-Behavioral Therapy…Wow. 3 PM, One-on-One. 3:45 PM, Activity…" He looks at Peter, furrowing his brows. "Like finger painting?"

Peter scoffs. "I should hope not."

El shrugs. "Maybe it's knitting."

"Or archery," Peter offers, nodding.

"Or ballet."

"Or-"

"Yeah, I'll let it be a surprise," Neal announces, holding up a hand. "Please just stop." Peter and El have to keep themselves from laughing and Neal just smirks as he shakes his head, turning his attention back to the pamphlet. "5 PM, Free Time. 6:30 PM, Dinner. 7:15 PM, Reflection. 7:30 PM, Free Time. 11 PM, Curfew." He sighs, dropping it on the end table. "Great."

Peter looks at his hands, before glancing up at Neal, his voice low. "We're proud of you, for being here."

Neal nods, looking down. "Yeah."

"Really." Peter adds this, slipping a hand into his pocket and slapping Neal's shoulder. Neal smirks.

"Can't say I feel the same, but at least I'm dipping my toes in."

El smirks, and a woman appears in the doorway, perhaps a few years older than Neal. She's by no means shapeless, but she's extremely slender, almost delicate. The volume of her deep red hair contrasts it; it curls in Shirley Temple-esque ringlets and has no rhyme or reason.

"Hi, Neal?"

He looks up, nodding, slipping his hands in his pockets. "That's me."

She smiles, and steps in, extending a hand. "Great to meet you, Neal. I'm Camille, I'm one of the members of your team."

Peter raises his eyebrows. "You have a team." Neal grins, rocking back on his heels.

"It's so nice to meet you, Camille." He glances back at Peter, then smiles at her. "So, uh… which member of my team, are you?"

She gives him a knowing smile, there's a hint of reprimanding in it. "I'll be your counselor, Neal." She emphasizes the word, so he knows she's serious. El has to stifle a small snicker, and Peter shoots her a glare. Camille motions to Peter and El. "Is this your family?"

Neal widens his eyes, and Peter clears his throat. No one knows how to react for a moment, until El straightens up. "Yes. This is Peter, Neal's…father. And I'm Elizabeth. His…step…mother."

Neal's eyes open even wider and he searches the floor. Peter just stands there, unsure of what to do next. Camille smiles.

"You have a beautiful family."

Neal looks up at this, plastering on a very fake grin and speaking through his teeth. "Thank you so much."

"Of course," Camille replies, holding open the door. "We're getting started, if you'd all like to join us in the West Hall. Five minutes."

Peter just gives her a tight-lipped smile, Neal scratches his head, looking down, and El sighs, stepping forward and breaking the awkward silence. "Thank you so much, Camille. We'll see you in five."

Camille smiles, and takes one more look at the three of them before breezing down the hall to the next room.

Neal sinks onto the bed, head in his hands, and Peter stares at El. _What the hell was that_? She just shrugs.

+++++++++

"Neal?"

The young man doesn't respond. He's sitting at a table in the lounge, the fingers of one hand wrapped around a cup of coffee, the other hand drumming against the table.

"Neal. How're you doing?"

After a moment, the younger man looks up, and opens his mouth to speak, then closes it again, shaking his head. "I'm… Yeah, I'm okay."

Peter sighs at this, leaning back in the chair. "How's it going over here?"

Neal scoffs, searching the ceiling as he takes a swig of his coffee. "There are worse places to be."

His mentor chuckles at this, looking at the table. "You're right." He pauses. "There are. What have you been up to?"

Neal glances around the room, surveying his surroundings; the environment, the space, the people. "Just… keeping busy. Wish I was at work."

"Staying positive?" Neal shrugs both his shoulders, cocking his head as he sips his coffee. "That's good."

"Any updates on the case?" Neal casually asks, looking down at his coffee when he does. Peter hesitates.

"Not much in the way of hard facts. Lots more speculation."

Neal's quiet. "Is she still at the top of the list?"

Peter nods, keeping his eyes locked on Neal's. "Yes."

"You know she didn't do it. She had the needles to protect me, Peter."

"I know what she was trying to do, but it doesn't look good. There's more evidence against her than Thompson, at this point, and he's out of the country in two days."

Neal shakes his head, lightly pounding a fist on the table over and over as he shakes his head. "I can't let her go down for this, Peter," he finally says, glancing up.

"Why are you so sure it wasn't her?"

Neal hesitates, studying the people behind Peter. "I am, okay?"

"I'm sure you're sure, but I can't say for sure that I'm sure."

Neal cocks his head. "Huh?" Peter shakes his head, waving it off.

He hesitates, then, after a moment: "So. Week one under your belt." A brief pause, and he lowers his voice. "Talk to me, Neal. How are you really feeling?"

Neal sighs, glancing to the side, before looking up and meeting Peter's eyes. "Honestly?" Peter gives him a curt nod. Neal shrugs. "The same as I did before I came. The lectures are interesting, but it's nothing I don't already know. The community is fine, and everything, I'm just…" He lowers his voice further. "I feel just as bad as I did before I got here."

Peter sighs at this, leaning back in the chair. "I understand, Neal. I do. But if you take anything from this, even if it's something like staying clean for 26 days straight, I'll take it."

Neal scoffs. "Yeah. At this point, I'll take what I can get."

Peter smirks, looking down. "That's all I'm asking for."

Even if Neal won't admit it, there's something different. It's a light in his eyes, that wasn't there in the months prior to him coming here. Perhaps it's just that they're no longer blood-shot and red-rimmed at all hours, but whatever it is, it looks good to Peter. He's been keeping tabs on Neal, checking in, pulling rank for details, and everyone has said what a delight Neal is to be around. Peter laughed at this. They don't need to tell him how wonderful, intelligent, charming and kind-hearted Neal is, Peter knows that already. He just wants to hear his friend is happy and healthy.

That's all he wants, more than anything, is for Neal to find happiness, and he hopes to God that Neal finds it here.


	22. 20: Famous Last Words

A/N: Hallo! Been crazy busy with midterms but it's so hard for me to put this story down right now, I am just having so much fun. Please let me know what you think as we get close to the end. It'll be a fun one!

Chapter 20

"Unbelievable, Peter."

"Neal-"

"When was it decided that I'm just not to be trusted with information anymore?"

"Neal-"

"You took her in. You locked her up, and you didn't even tell me."

"_Neal_." Neal glances up at this. "I didn't want to worry you."

Neal pushes himself up from the chair, throwing up his hands as he paces. "I'm not a goddamn child, Peter, I can handle these things. You should have told me."

Peter sighs. "You're right."

When they took Sisley in, it was decided that, in Neal's best interest, they not inform him just yet, but Neal has his ways and he finds things out, even when he's locked up in here. He sighs. "Damn right, I'm right."

Peter smirks, looking down, before glancing back up at Neal. "How are _you_ doing?"

Neal shrugs, taking his seat again and pushing up his sleeves. "I'm okay. Better."

Peter nods, keeping his eyes on Neal. There's a flicker of darkness in Neal's eyes that tells Peter his friend is lying to him. He hesitates, then goes along with it, tapping a few fingers against the table. "That's...good. Better, how?"

Neal hesitates, searching for the words. This place is good for him, despite his original caution. He's learned a lot about what's happened to him, and he's learned a lot about who he is and how he got this way. This doesn't change the fact that he's still struggling just to get through every second of every day. "Just…just figuring things out. Focused on figuring things out. It's helping."

"I'm glad to hear that." He pauses. "What are you guys up to today?"

Neal chuckles, drumming his fingers against the table. "Guest speaker in a few. I think we're going down to the park for baseball later." Peter grins at this, perking up.

"Baseball."

Neal snickers. "I figured you'd like that. You want to come?"

The agent glances around the room, then looks at his watch. "Am I allowed to come?"

Neal shrugs. "Why not. Jay brings his Dad all the time." Peter perks up at the mention of Neal's roommate.

"Yeah, I think I'll join you guys." He sits up a bit straighter, fixing his lapel. "Haven't been on the field in a while. As long as I take it easy on my shoulder."

"Yeah, take it easy, old man."

His boss laughs, leaning back in the chair, and studying Neal. After a moment, he leans forward again, lacing his fingers and pressing them against the table. "You look good, Neal." Neal quickly nods at this, looking down, uncomfortable. "You sound good. I'm glad you're here." Neal shrugs, looking down at his hands, and Peter sighs, leaning back again, before pushing himself up and going to give his friend a slap on the shoulder. "Proud of you, buddy."

Neal smirks, rolling his eyes, still not looking up at Peter. "Thanks." Peter nods, then shrugs his jacket forward, fixing his lapel again.

"I'll be back at 3:30. Get your game face on, I'll be taking you down."

Peter smirks and gives Neal another slap on the shoulder before heading out.

The young man watches after him, then looks back down at the table. Camille slides into the seat next to him. "Hey there." He glances over at her, then looks back down at his hands. "How's your day going, Neal?" She asks him this with a smile, urging him to reply. He sighs, leaning back in the chair.

"Good. Thanks." He isn't in the mood.

"How's your Dad?"

He glances up at this, confused, then remembers himself, smirking. "He's…" He hesitates. "He's good. He's just… frustrating."

"Family can be that way. Especially when they're people you spend every moment of your life with. Sometimes you feel like you need to get away from these people that are so often just like you. It's like you're on a leash."

Neal scoffs at this, glancing down at his pant leg covering his anklet. "You're telling me."

She studies him for a moment, then looks down. "Do you have a good relationship with him?"

Neal glances up, then looks at his hands. "Yeah, for the most part. He's a good man. He's helped me through a lot. He's always there when I need him. He tries to keep me out of trouble." He hesitates, then turns to her, explaining. "We don't always see eye to eye when it comes to how we want to get to our goals, but we always have the same end in sight. He's… He's probably the most influential person in my life."

She smiles at this, nodding as she looks down. "As he should be. It's a good thing you have his support in this. Few people do." He raises his eyebrows, nodding, before glancing over at her.

"You're right on that."

"Did he know you planned to come here?"

He hesitates, glancing out the window. "He asked me to come." He clenches his jaw for a moment, shaking his head once as he drops a fist on the table. "He was worried about me."

"Was he there often during your worst?" Neal nods, not looking up at her, gritting his teeth. "And you took his advice."

Neal shrugs. "I was completely out of control. I didn't have any other choice." He hesitates. "I was ready to just end all of it."

"You haven't talked to me about this."

"We're talking about it now."

"This was important for you to mention, Neal."

He nods. "I know." A slight hesitation, and then, "I felt like I didn't have any other option. I kept trying, and I kept failing." He glances up. "I don't fail. That's not who I am. This…this isn't me."

"Rock bottom."

He glances over at her, then nods. "Yeah."

She smiles, looking down for a moment, then stands, placing a hand on Neal's shoulder. "Keep climbing, okay?"

He doesn't say anything, but nods, looking back at the table.

* * *

Neal surveys the crowd after the lecture, before straightening his lapel and strolling towards the man who has just stepped off the lecture platform.

He extends a hand as he approaches, grinning. "Thank you for coming, Mr. Hanley, your speech was inspired."

The tall, broad-shouldered man turns when he hears Neal's voice, grinning when he sees the outstretched hand. He takes it and gives Neal a shake, shifting his weight.

"You can call me Charles. And I'd love to come back."

"We'd love it, too," Neal responds, meaning every word of it. Hanley's words reached into the depths of Neal's soul and awakened something he hadn't even realized was drifting away through all this madness: his confidence. Of course, Neal can always put on a show, but inside, he has lost who he is, he's no longer sure of himself. It may not show in his everyday actions, but it shows in how he presents himself to the people he loves. It shows in his views, and the words he says, and the way he looks at things. It shows- God, does it show- every time he poisons himself further trying to bury all of the things in himself that he needs to kill.

He and Hanley hit it off immediately. They're two of a kind, they fit, they connect. In a way, they are the same man. After briefly chatting about the speech, they decide to grab a cup of coffee in the lounge, talking at a pace that could go on for hours.

They almost run out of things to say, and they pause, when Hanley looks over at Neal. "So. Neal. What's your story?"

Neal hesitates, then scoffs, leaning forward on the couch as he sips his coffee. "My story… well there are a few different versions, depending on who you talk to."

"I'm talking to you," Hanley points out, voice even. Neal considers this, shrugging.

"You are," he nods, grinning. He glances over. "My story is that I take everything too far. And I didn't have anyone to show me how to handle things growing up. Bad things came my way, ran with the wrong crowd. Got in too deep."

"And what brought you here?"

Neal glances over at Hanley, then looks down again. "My…" He pauses to think about this, for a moment, before looking up at Hanley again, this time meeting his eyes, his voice confident and resolved. "My dad, actually. Asked that I come here."

"He wanted you to get help."

Neal nods, looking down at his hands. "He's been saving my skin since the moment I showed up in his life," he admits with a small grin, and Hanley chuckles.

"Good man."

"He is."

"And how much longer do you have here?"

Neal sighs, leaning back in the chair to think about it. "Two more weeks. Just over two weeks."

Hanley stands up upon hearing this, and extends a hand. "You'll do just fine, kid. You've got a great head on your shoulders. I look forward to seeing you at graduation."

Neal laughs, returning the handshake. "You and I, both."

And he almost means it.

* * *

They sit at the picnic table, both her hands in both of his. They don't look at each other when they speak.

"How long did they keep you for?"

"A day. Just lots of questioning." She sighs. "It was exhausting."

He looks up at this, face pained. "You're in this because of me and my mistakes."

She manages a weak smile. "I'd do it again if I had to." He smirks at this, glancing up at her.

"Nah."

She nods, and he smiles a bit wider, returning his focus to the table. "How are you, Neal?" she then asks, voice a few levels lower. He hesitates, and shrugs.

"Okay. Trying to handle it. Starting to get a little stir-crazy. Just want to get out and live my life."

"You will. As soon as you're done here." He nods.

"I know."

"It'll all be worth it."

"I know."

Neal looks down. This is awkward. This whole conversation is awkward. Where did their easy, comfortable banter go? Where did their connection go? What was different?

It takes a moment, but eventually it hits Neal, and he sits up straighter when he realizes this. They were good together when they were drunk.

Now they're not, and they're quickly realizing they have very little in common.

Neal hesitates, then glances up at her. "You've been staying clean?"

She sighs, giving him a weak smile. "Some days are better than others."

"So, not really."

She chuckles, shaking her head. "No, not really. Right now, though. I am."

He gives her a curt nod. "Good."

She nods as well, and after a moment, pulls her hands from his and places them back in her lap. "What are you going to do? When you're out of here?"

A lengthy sigh falls from Neal's lips and he leans back in the chair. He doesn't know what he's going to do. Camille recommended a sober living home, but that's not so much his style. Peter wants him to move in for a month after he's released, and then after that, he's free as a bird. Well, a bird with a two-mile tracking anklet. "I don't know."

"Are they preparing you? So you'll be ready?"

"Yeah, but this isn't even half the battle. It's what happens when I get back into the real world."

"You'll do just fine. That's what the preparation is for."

"I know." He pauses, then looks up at her, face pained. "I'm terrified."

"Of what?"

He shifts. "They can teach me everything they know. We can figure out how I got this way. It doesn't change the fact that when I'm out there, there's only one thing that really helps."

"Drinking," she confirms. He sighs, glancing down at his hands. "Neal, that's not living-"

"Like you can say anything on the subject?"

"Neal-"

"Otherwise, every day is a nightmare, right? I'm just fighting, all the goddamn time. I don't want to fight anymore."

"You're a fighter. You're better than this."

"Am I?"

"I know you are."

He releases a weak scoff. "I'm having trouble convincing myself that."

* * *

He wakes in a heated sweat.

He's not in his home. He's not in Peter's home. He's not in Kate's home.

Where the hell is he?

A hand finds his head, and he squeezes his eyes shut, trying to relieve the pressure, looking around.

Oh.

He's at Applegate. He's in his room. He's in treatment.

Neal picks himself up off the ground- why the hell did he wake up on the floor?- and brushes off his pajama pants, glancing over at Jay, sleeping soundly. Neal sighs, wandering to the bathroom, resting his palms against the sink and leaning forward.

The nightmares had been getting better, a little, but since talking to Sisley, it's getting bad again. He's shaking all the time… not from withdrawals, he's past that. He's past the physical discomfort, the headaches, the nausea. It's the psychological hold this has on him, and that's probably worse than the physical pain. It's the anxiety. The anxious terror that he could choke at any moment. The horrifying fear that crawls through every inch of him. It's constant. He _constantly_ feels like he's about to explode, and he doesn't know how to handle it. The shaking, the headache, the nervousness, the anxiousness; it's all come flooding back to him and he's only ever found one thing that can keep it at bay, but he can't have it here.

He's just counting down the days.

The knowledge that this is a bad thing, that that is how he views this; he knows it isn't good, but he's not sure anyone here understands. Obviously, on some level, they do, but this is a constant terror, feeling like someone is gripping his throat, swallowing him alive, peeling him apart from the inside out. He needs to wash it clean.

The cool water Neal splashes on his face barely provides a nanosecond of relief, before he's back to the way it was before. He lightly drops a fist to the porcelain, over and over and over again, before whirling around, wandering out to the lounge and collapsing on the couch, his head in his hands. With his elbows propped up on his knees, Neal cranes his neck to glance at his watch. 2:00 AM.

Neal sighs.

He sits there for a moment, just breathing; or at least, trying to breathe. His breath is unsteady, moving in and out in shaky, unsure bursts, and he squeezes his palms against his temple, gritting his teeth. His barefoot toes curl, and a low groan escapes him when he squeezes his eyes shut.

This is torturous. This is inhumane.

This is criminal.

A voice clears a throat behind him, and he doesn't look up, just maintaining his position, trying to steady himself and the nerves within him that are fraying and sparking.

"Neal?" Jay's smooth, relaxed voice immediately melts a tiny bit of the stress, but it's nowhere near enough. "Hey, man. What are you doing?" he asks, quiet, before crossing over to join him on the couch. Neal stays where he is, his voice shaking when he mutters.

"Just trying to relax."

Jay scoffs. "It's two in the morning, you should already be relaxed."

"I'm not. Are you?"

Jay scoffs again. "Naw. But I'm trying my damnedest while I'm here."

Neal finally glances over at this, then scoffs in agreement, looking back down. "I just need to get out of here, soon," he resolves, voice shaking.

Jay studies Neal when he hears this, shaking his head. "No way. No way, dude. You're not ready. You'd break the moment you got out of here."

Neal looks over at him. "Isn't that the point?"

Jay doesn't laugh at this, he just keeps his face straight. "Why are you here, man?"

Neal scoffs, shaking his head. "I have to be. Wasn't really my choice."

"This place is a blessing. Not everyone gets a chance like this. You're lucky. Don't abuse that."

Neal doesn't look up at this. What Jay doesn't get is that Neal abuses everything. He abuses his power; his charisma, his charm, his character. He abuses the people in his life, he uses them to his advantage. He abuses trust, the trust Peter has instilled in him. He abuses the opportunities he's been given to fix this. And he abuses himself, every time he falls off the wagon. Every time he needs it, one more night, one more time.

That's where his thought is flawed, he realizes. If he leaves here and immediately goes to feel good 'one last time'… well that's just the start of this all over again. There is no 'just one last time', not for people like him. There never will be.

And that makes Neal overwhelmingly sad. For a few reasons; mostly because he knows how lost he is, and how broken he is, and how he almost feels complete, when he's there. When he's drowned himself in whiskey and wine and is numb to everything, and when he can sleep through the night without the nightmares. When he can just forget about everything he's done and everyone he's hurt and all the things he's lost. When he can pretend, just for a few hours, that he's happy and nothing's wrong.

The other reason it makes him sad is because the only thing that can make him anywhere close to happy is a goddamn bottle, and no number of days locked in here will ever change that. He's flawed. He's scarred. He's damaged, and those damages aren't going anywhere anytime soon.

He's sure of it.


	23. 21: Life Is Not a Waiting Room

**A/N: **Hi guys. This chapter... it's a little scattered, because I'm a little scattered. But it's important for the story, only 2 or 3 chapters left now.

I've been kind of MIA, and I apologize. The honest truth, which I feel needs to be said because it's just the way I am and the way the program works, is that today is my brand new day. I hit up a meeting and will now be declaring 3/11/13 as my new sobriety date, due to mistakes I've made and for the sake of starting over. I'm so happy to be back in meetings, I'm so happy to be starting over, and I'm so happy to be alive and doing what I love most, writing. I love you all. Thank you for your continued support.

Chapter 21

"You gotta get me out of here."

"No way, man. This is good for you."

"I'm in prison."

"You've done it before, now suck it up."

"Mozz." Mozzie looks up and is struck when he sees how much pain Neal's face holds, his fingers laced around a cup of coffee as he drums his thumb against the table, bouncing a foot. Anxious. Mozzie sighs at this, leaning back.

"What, Neal."

"I need to get out of here. I'm losing my mind, you gotta help me."

Mozzie studies Neal, then looks down, shaking his head. "I can't do it. I'm sorry, man."

They're sitting in the lounge. Neal has just finished his one-on-one with Camille, who is starting to say she is getting concerned about Neal and is recommending he consider staying longer. Neal almost laughed when she said this, when he realized she was serious.

That would be hell. Absolute hell. They picked up some new evidence on Thompson, so for the moment Sisley has been released, and she's been visiting him, mentioning how much she can't wait until he's free. So they can return to their old ways together, pretending to be happy. The way things were.

He's getting ready to ask Sisley to sneak him out, or sneak something in. Something, anything to put him out of this misery. He knows she'd do it, and that fact alone sends a shiver through his bones.

"What are you thinking about?" Mozzie asks, suspicious. Neal just shakes his head, snapping back into it, and glances down at his phone when he responds.

"Nothing. Just zoning out." He says this as he presses 'send' on a text to Sisley: '_Save me._'

Mozzie continues to study him, not convinced, and Neal just shrugs. _What?_

When Mozzie's gone, Neal sits outside, picking at the flaking synthetic wood of the picnic table. He keeps glancing around, and when he hears the door to the building creak open, he looks over, sighing in relief when Sisley walks out. She's silent as she approaches him, and he stands when she's close, wrapping her up and giving her a long kiss, then just resting his forehead against hers.

"How are you?" she asks after a moment, quiet. He just shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut.

"I can't do this."

She nods, looking down. Something about her is different today. It's a resolved peace, but one she isn't looking forward to. It's a solemn acceptance. A sad anxiousness. It worries him. "I know." She then takes a seat next to him, taking his empty cup of coffee and pouring in the contents of a small bottle in her purse, replacing the lid and handing it over to him. He murmurs a quiet thanks, hands shaking as he lifts the cup to his lips, taking a long pull, his eyelids drifting shut. She then rests her head on his shoulder, shutting her eyes. He just sips, throwing all of the help and trust Peter has given him right out the window. And he's never felt better. But it's not real, and somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows that.

It's been a few hours, and they're in his room, laying on his bed, both staring up at the ceiling. Neal has one arm crossed behind his head, the other wrapped under Sisley's shoulders, and she's curled against him. They're quiet. Neal's drunk, and doesn't have much to say, he just lets himself feel a little numb for a while. He's pretending he's somewhere else, anywhere but here.

She reaches over into her bag, refilling the coffee cup again, handing it over to Neal, and he casually sips at it, sighing in relief. His hands don't shake anymore, his body is numb and warm, and he isn't spending every moment thinking up new ways to kill himself.

After some time, though, there's a tension that wasn't there before. Neal is relaxed, eyes lightly shut in his comfortable numbness, but Sisley is clearly anxious. She keeps shifting next to him, and her breathing is unsteady. He glances over at her.

"Are you okay?"

She hesitates, biting a lip, then smiles over at him, but it's weak. "Yeah, I'm fine."

He tilts his chin down, searching her eyes. "Don't lie to me."

"It's fine, Neal." She presses a quick kiss to his lips for reassurance. "Really."

He sighs, letting his head fall back against the pillow, and holds out a hand. She sighs, too, and just picks up the bottle, handing it to him. He takes a swig straight from it, ignoring the coffee cup, exhaling sharply when he finishes. He knows he shouldn't, he knows it's an awful idea, but if he drinks enough, he can forget about that.

He almost does, but a voice at the door pulls him out of the comfortable denial. "You have got to be kidding me."

Shit.

Peter is standing at the door with Elizabeth, accompanied by Diana and Jones, who stand there with their arms crossed. Neal swears under his breath, sitting himself up and handing the bottle to Sisley, who keeps her eyes down.

Peter keeps his eyes locked on Neal, and sighs, rolling back his shoulders before he nods over to Diana, who breezes in, guiding Sisley from the bed and slapping cuffs on her, her clipped voice giving Sisley her rights. Neal sits up a little straighter, eyes wide. "What the _hell_, Peter?"

Peter ignores Neal, looking over to Sisley. "Sisley Stewart, you are under arrest for the murder of James Wilcox." Neal jumps from the bed to go to Sisley, but Diana leads her out of the room. Sisley glances back at Neal, mouthing these words for him. _I'm sorry._

He sinks back into his seated position on the bed, searching the floor. "What is going on, Peter?" he finally asks quietly, looking up at his mentor. Peter sighs.

"We received a postcard from her this morning. A full confession. She said she didn't want to run anymore." Neal scoffs at this after a moment, then just settles his head in his hands, his fingers bunching around his hair. "Are you okay?" Peter asks, quiet.

"She killed him," is all Neal has at the moment. Peter just nods. Neal scoffs again, rocking slightly, his voice cracking. "Oh, my God."

Peter crosses his arms, studying the young man, frustrated by how easy it was for him to get this intoxicated, even in the confines of Applegate. "How long has she been doing this for you?"

"That was the first time," he admits, glancing down at his laced fingers.

"And you expect me to believe that?"

"Why would I lie, Peter. It's not like it's going to change how disappointed you are, whether this is the first or fifth time."

Peter nods, looking down, then sighs. "Are you gonna be alright?" Neal nods, wincing and exhaling sharply. Peter glances up, squeezing Neal's shoulder. "We're not giving up on you, Neal."

Neal squeezes his eyes shut. He doesn't want to try anymore. He's tired, he's so, so tired, and he can't do this, no matter how hard he tries. The selfish part of him that just wants to feed this flame is beginning to resent Peter for all of his love and good intention.

The majority of him, though, the kind-hearted man with a greyscale view of the rules, hates this. Hates disappointing Peter, and wants nothing more than to take this all back, right now.

But he can't.

"What now?"

"We'll talk to Camille, and talk about looking at some other options, since this clearly wasn't enough for you." Neal sighs, looking at his hands, and reaching over for his cup of 'coffee', taking a swig. Peter glances over. "That better be coffee."

Neal just nods as he continues to take pulls from the cup, and Peter reaches over and snatches it from his hand, opening the cap and peering in. Neal has turned and stretched out on his back, arms crossed behind his head, squeezing his eyes shut. Peter inhales sharply when he sees the amber liquid inside, and he tosses the cup to the floor, a guttural noise of frustration rising up from his throat. Elizabeth winces when the cup hits the ground and the whiskey pools out onto the floor.

"What the hell happened, Neal? When did you stop caring? When did you decide you were going to throw everything away? This isn't you." Neal keeps his eyes squeezed shut, clenching his jaw. "Do you ever think about where you'll be in a year, in five, if you keep this up? Everyone you love will leave, Neal. I only have so much goddamn patience. You'll lose everything you have. You'll blow your whole life trying to keep up your goddamn habit and you'll lose everything. I hope it's worth it."

Neal doesn't speak, just winces as his fingers tremble in the rage he feels as Peter speaks to him this way, but the shaking starts to fade as the whiskey pulses through him. God, he wants the cup back. He peers over to the spilled mess on the floor, swearing under his breath. Peter groans, and El's soft voice breaks through the silence in a moment. "Peter, can I talk to him for a minute?"

"What are you gonna say, El."

"Just let me talk to him."

Peter sighs, storming out the door, cracking his knuckles. El sits at the edge of Neal's bed, not saying anything for a moment.

"You know… you deserve better than this." She hesitates, then begins again. "You are such a smart, kind, good man. You deserve to live, not just survive." He nods faintly, staring straight ahead. "You can't be happy like this."

He scoffs. "Understatement of the year."

She blinks, looking down. "So let us help you."

He shifts, then glances over at her. "You tried. It's fine."

"We'll keep trying. We don't mind, if you don't mind. You have nothing left to lose, Neal." He squeezes his eyes shut at this, bringing a few fingers to his temple, and he inhales sharply. "You don't want to do this anymore. I know you don't." He squeezes his eyes shut tighter, shaking his head.

"No," is all he manages, his voice barely audible and cracking when he speaks. She nods. He grimaces, and opens his eyes, blinking a few times as tears start to well up in them. "God, no. I can't." She nods again, looking down, and squeezing his shoulder again. He looks over at her, his face pained. "I'm just…I'm tired, El." She looks up at this, and is struck by the deep, pulsing pain in his eyes. She exhales a shaky breath, looking down.

"I know, hon. You'll be okay. You're an incredible man, you've pulled through before. You know you deserve better than this, let's make that happen."

It takes him a moment, but he nods, keeping his head down. "Yeah. Okay."

"Stay here, okay? I'll be right back."

Neal just nods, holding his head in his hands, exhaling shakily as El wanders out to talk to Peter. He hears murmuring voices, but can't make out the words. He leans against the wall, his knees pulled up to his chest on the bed, raking a shaking hand through his hair.

Peter slowly walks in after a moment, hesitant, and Neal can't read his face. It's stone. Peter's voice is gruff when he speaks. "Neal." Neal nods, looking back down. Peter sits next to him on the edge of the bed, dropping a hand on Neal's shoulder. "We just want you to get through this. I'm…" He pauses, squeezing his eyes shut and inhaling through his nose. "I'm not angry. I just refuse to stand here and watch while you aimlessly stumble through life, Neal." Neal nods again, still not glancing up at Peter. Peter sighs. "You'll finish this week here, then you'll come stay with us. Is that okay?"

Neal hesitates. He knows, somewhere deep within him, that he desperately wants to break this vicious cycle. He needs to. He's miserable. He hasn't lived in so long, he's just been surviving, numb, and feeling the intense longing and emptiness that he just can't fill, no matter how much whiskey he pours into himself. He knows it doesn't work, but he keeps doing it because it makes it feel better for a little while.

He glances up at Peter, his voice shaking when he nods. "Yeah. Okay."

Peter gives him a sad smile, squeezing his shoulder when he looks down, sighing. "If we had known this would happen, that it would be that easy for you to use, I wouldn't have asked you to do it, Neal. I'm sorry."

Neal nods again, then shakes his head. "Don't be sorry. It was my choice."

Peter nods. "Yes. It was. But this was supposed to be a place where you didn't even have to worry about it. It wasn't even supposed to be an option. Once you're done here, you can spend a few days at home, recovering, and we'll get you back to work."

Neal glances up at this. "I'd like that."

Peter shrugs. "You're important to us. We're not ready to lose you, Neal."

"I'm sorry," he finally says, looking up at the two of them, face pained. Peter shifts, looking over at Neal.

"Don't be sorry. You'll be fine."

Neal scoffs. He sure as shit hopes so.

* * *

"I'm sorry to hear this happened," Camille says, in her so-calm-it's-annoying voice. Neal shrugs, leaning back in the sofa, crossing an ankle over his knee.

"Yeah."

"You only have four more days with us, Neal. Can you make them count?"

He shifts, glancing up at her. "Sure."

She sighs, studying him, tilting her head slightly. "You have so much potential. You have such an amazing story, and you have so many opportunities to get everything you want in life. I'd hate to see you waste that." He shrugs. "What is your plan, for after graduation?"

He shifts in the sofa again, studying the painting on the wall behind Camille's head. It's tasteless. Everything here is. The decor. The food.

The people. The lives they lead.

"I'll be going back home. Going back to work. Try to live my life."

She considers this. "You live alone. Is being by yourself a good idea right now?"

This catches him off guard, and he realizes that when he said 'home', he meant Peter's house. He shakes his head, gathering his thoughts. "No, no, I'll be staying with my…Dad."

She smiles softly at this. "That's good to hear. He clearly cares about you very much, Neal." He provides a weak smile at this, lacing his fingers together.

"He does. I don't want to know where I'd be if I didn't have him."

She considers this. "Where do you think you'd be?"

He scoffs, glancing down. "Probably dead. If not, very close. I wasn't going anywhere, I wasn't seeing anyone. I wasn't…" He takes a minute, hesitating to gather the strength to say the words. "I had completely lost it, I was at the end of the road. He picked me up again, that's really what I needed. Someone to just believe in me." He sighs. "But I keep messing it up, that's the problem. One of these days, I'm going to tell him I'll really do it this time, and he's just not going to believe me anymore.

"He's your father, Neal. I think he's always going to believe in you." He scoffs at this, studying the ceiling.

"If he was even half-sane, he would have given up on me already."

She smiles at this, looking down at her papers, before glancing back up at him, studying his eyes. "Okay. Okay, Neal. I think that's good for today. Take care of yourself, okay?"

He nods, pushing himself up off the sofa and walking out without another word.

* * *

It's time. The day that seals his fate. The day that he had been looking forward to since he got here, but is now dreading.

The real world terrifies him. He knows he's not ready, not in any sense of the word, but here he is. Getting prepared to be shipped off back to the reality that he has no idea how to handle. He's spent 26 days here in Hell, supposedly being given the tools he needs to handle life.

He feels completely unprepared.

"Neal. Neal, you have a visitor."

The young man doesn't reply. He's sitting on his bed, leaned against the wall with his knees up, staring out the window.

Footsteps.

"Neal?"

"Peter." That's all Neal has for his mentor in response right now. He doesn't even look at him. He just stays staring out the window.

"Can you please just look at me?"

Neal doesn't. "What do you want to say to me, Peter?"

The older man sighs. "I wanted to see if you needed help packing." He shrugs. "It's your last day."

Neal finally glances up at this. "I know it is."

"How…are you feeling?" Peter ventures, unsure if that was the right thing to say.

Neal doesn't feel great, and he says so. He's nervous, he's anxious, and he's worried, but most of all, he's depressed. He's incredibly, insanely depressed because he can't even handle 26 days in a structured environment where he is supposed to be recovering, without screwing it up.

"It's going to be okay," Peter says, quiet, as he helps Neal gather his things, but he just hopes to God he's right.

Neal glances over at him. "You think?"

Peter shrugs. "I believe in you. The question is, do you?"

Neal chuckles, but it's half-hearted. "Sure."

Peter sighs. "Neal, we're past that. Come on."

He's well aware they're past that. He can't screw around anymore, this is his last chance. This is the last chance he'll get. Honestly, truthfully, he knows Peter would stay with him till the bitter end, but this is the last chance _Neal_ has to salvage his reputation and save face.

If he fucks up again, it's over for him. He knows there's no other way.

When they're home, it feels much like when he started. He's sitting on the sofa, and El is fawning over him. Peter is sitting across from Neal, studying the young man over the top of his mug of coffee. Neal feels like he's being silently interrogated. After a few painfully silent minutes of this, he throws up his hands.

"Okay, do I have something on my face, or…?"

Peter doesn't budge. El leans over to Neal, murmuring quietly. "Don't mind sour grapes."

Neal smirks as he hears El use Neal's first pet name for Peter. And for the first time since starting all of this, he feels at home.


	24. 22: Break

A/N: Sorry, it's been so long! Had a CRAZY past few weeks. This is the second to last chapter, so obviously it's filled with all sorts of whumpage. Last chapter up either tonight or tomorrow. Lemme know what you guys think, makes me a better writer. :)

Chapter 22

"Oh, God….Peter, this is awful," Neal cringes when he speaks, struggling to swallow the tough meat he's chewing. Elizabeth snickers to herself, picking at her salad, and Peter throws up his hands, pushing back his chair from the table.

"Fine, you can make dinner tomorrow."

Neal laughs at this, shaking his head. "No problem. I'll make something edible, I can guarantee you that."

When they're cleaning up the table, Peter suddenly stops, holding a few plates. He's just studying Neal. The younger man is smiling and laughing with Elizabeth about something, probably Peter's awful cooking, but Peter's heart sinks when he sees that none of the joy reaches Neal's eyes. It dawns on Peter that it's a mask.

And he worries. He always worries when Neal puts up this wall, but even more so now. If he's wearing a mask, it's because he's hiding, and right now, hiding is the last thing Neal should be doing.

Elizabeth goes upstairs to get to bed a few hours later, and Neal and Peter are kicking back on the sofa, just shooting the breeze. Some time after it gets awkwardly silent and they've run out of things to say, Peter glances over at Neal, and leans back against the sofa, sighing. "Come on, Neal. Talk to me."

Neal keeps his eyes focused on the pad in his lap as he sketches a scene. Something involving two men standing next to a horse. "We are talking."

"About what's going on. With you."

At this, a small smirk plays on Neal's lips, and he finally meets Peter's eyes. "Nothing's going on. I'm fine."

"You expect me to believe that, in the situation you're in right now?"

Neal groans. "There is no situation, Peter. I've just been… I'm just thinking about her."

"Sisley." Neal nods, and Peter sighs. "You gotta let it go, Neal." Neal just nods at this, not looking up. "You've got almost two months under your belt. Focus on you, and you'll get even farther." Neal nods again, then shifts on the sofa, glancing up at Peter.

"Have you heard anything from her?"

Peter sighs, cocking his head slightly. "She's doing well. She says she misses you. She's glad she was given the opportunity to put as much of this right as she possibly could." Neal digests this information, tapping his fingers together as he thinks, and Peter doesn't like the look of it. He studies his partner, a little suspicious. "Uh…whatcha thinking?"

Neal glances over. "I need to see her, Peter."

Peter scoffs. "I don't think so. Not right now, Neal. Not for you."

"Then when? You keep saying that, I'm not ready, not yet, just a little longer. I need a goal here, Peter, I need the end to be in sight. You know that."

Peter sighs at this, then glances down, before looking back up at Neal. "You're right. I'm sorry. I will let you know."

Despite the situation, Sisley _has_ been helpful. More than helpful. She has been able to provide information; enough information to get Thompson as a co-conspirator in the pension and rehabilitation fraud, and more than enough to lock him away for a very long time.

This news provided Neal a sigh of relief, that the man who took advantage of him and so many other struggling people is now behind bars. But he can't get over the fact that Sisley is a murderer.

If there is such a thing as a good at heart killer who committed a crime of passion, she's it. Her information scored her a deal with the courts, and she was admitted to a women's only prison with a wonderful rehabilitation program. That, however, doesn't change who she is and what she did. She'll be there for a very long time, too.

The next day at work, Peter finds himself more and more worried about his young CI. He's been staying sober, but since leaving Applegate, he's thrown himself into his work in a fierce way. Perhaps not a healthy way. It seems all sunshine and roses and rainbows shooting from his eyes- which, in hindsight, is actually kind of a horrifying image- but Peter knows Neal better than that. It's his escape, and it's building for something big. Something bad.

"There's something here, Peter. Something we're not seeing," Neal murmurs, studying the latest case file and bouncing a leg. His whole body is bouncing, really, and it's probably a combination of the gallons of coffee he's swallowed in the hour and a half they've been in the office, and anxiety. Crippling, debilitating anxiety.

Peter glances over at this. "Pearson has been in the states less than a week, and we're already getting tips that the piece is on the market."

"It's too hot right now, and he's smart. This isn't a mistake."

"He's covering for something. Trying to distract us."

Neal nods at this, glancing up at Peter. "Whatever it is he's hiding… maybe it's international. We focus all of our manpower to the states, he gets away with murder elsewhere." Peter furrows his brow at this, frowning at Neal, who sinks a bit in his chair. "Figuratively," he adds, shaking his head. Peter raises a brow, nodding.

"We'll look into it, but if this is really happening, we have a piece of French history that is going to walk the black market and go for a lot of money."

"Leave that to me, focus the FBI resources on whatever he's covering up."

Peter glances over at this. "You focus on yourself right now, Neal. I'm not letting you go out on this one."

Neal immediately straightens up at this, glaring at the man who has challenged his ability. He shakes his head. "I won't accept that, Peter."

Peter shrugs. "Tough. I don't trust you right now. You're working hard, that's great, but don't try to fool me into thinking you're okay. I don't buy it; not for one second, kid."

Neal sits back in the chair, just staring at Peter for a second, before he glances down for a moment. "You know, as much as you try to treat me like it, Peter, I'm not the son you wanted, and you're not the father I should have had. You're my boss, you're my ball and chain, and that's all you ever will be."

The words leave Peter feeling cold, and he clenches his jaw, hands balling into fists. His voice comes out slightly shaking and he swallows his words, as though he feels nauseous. "You need to go home now, Neal. You're off the case."

"Peter-"

"_Get out._"

Neal takes a shaky inward breath, pushing himself up out of the chair, and cocking his head to the side as he studies Peter, before his eyes harden slightly, and he saunters out of the conference room. Everyone in the room is quiet, and no one in the room looks Peter in the eyes. The agent stands there for a moment, leaning his palms on the table, and bouncing a foot slightly as he takes deep breaths. After a moment, he throws his hands up, growling in frustration.

When Neal staggers out the front door of the Bureau, he has to lean his palms above his knees to keep himself up, taking shaky breaths. He's a bull seeing red.

The ringing in his ears is starting to become stagnate, just a repetitive buzzing. His whole body is vibrating in rage, and he squeezes his eyes shut, gasping for breath.

Once he's had a moment to recover, he's able to straighten up, shoving his hands in his pockets as he begins briskly walking in the direction of who knows where. It's cold, and the wind bites at his skin. He can think of a few things that would warm him up.

The relationship he spent years nurturing and developing with Peter, the trust he let himself put in this man, the complete abandon with which he dropped his pride and worked for and with another person, he's ruined it. Words can't explain the anger he feels in this moment. This interaction, it's broken him. Their near father-and-son relationship has imploded with his hurtful words and he's burned the sturdiest bridge he's ever had. After all of the love, and care, and support Peter has given him, Neal has just thrown it back in his face.

And now all he has is the pain that's left. It needs to be remedied.

* * *

"Hey, Stewart. Visitor."

Sisley glances up, raising her eyebrows, and lazily stands. Time runs together here and she's lost sense of rush or worry. She just exists.

Once she's made her way to the visitor hall, her heart sinks. "Neal." The young man is sitting at the bench, his fingers laced together and his elbows propped up, head down. His hair is out of place, his collar is half up, half down, and his shirt is un-tucked. Shambles. She almost doesn't want to know how he sweet-talked his way in here, he's so obviously intoxicated.

He glances up when he hears his name, and her heart drops further when she sees his glassy, blood-shot eyes. The bench isn't big, but she slides in next to him, their shoulders and knees acting as a contact point for the energy to run between them. "You shouldn't be here."

He sighs, glancing over at her, then looking back down again. It takes him a moment to gather himself. "I needed to see you," he murmurs, and she squeezes her eyes shut for a brief moment when she hears his words slip together.

"You're drunk," she notes, and he scoffs, not responding. Her hand finds his, lacing their fingers together, her other hand resting over his palm to try to ease the shaking. "What happened." He scoffs again, and keeps his head down.

"I messed up."

A small sigh falls from her lips, and when she inhales again, the air in the room tastes sour in her mouth. It's stale. "How did you get here?"

"Walked."

"From the office?" Her eyes are wide. Seven miles is a lot to walk. It's also a large span of space with plenty of opportunities for Neal to drink away anything good in his life. Judging by his eyes, his words, his attitude, and the light scent of whiskey that follows him, she guesses he's been drinking since about mile two.

"Yeah." After this, she searches for words, but comes up short. She can't find anything to say, so he just reaches across and pulls her close. She doesn't fight it, her body just sort of collapsing under itself as she leans into him, her eyes squeezed shut when he speaks. "I don't know what to do anymore. I don't know how to fix this."

"That's entirely up to you."

He shifts. "Maybe it was, but not anymore." He winces, and shifts again, straightening up and kissing her hair. "Proud of you."

"For what."

"For doing what I couldn't do."

"You're just not trying hard enough."

"I've put everything I have into this. I don't fail at things that are possible." He doesn't look up at her. "I can't."

She sighs, studying his eyes. For a man who's always so composed, it's almost painful for her to see how lost he is in this moment. He looks years younger, he looks wounded, and he looks like he could break at any moment. "Neal," she begins, but he cuts her off, his voice rising slightly as it gets more emotional, and slurred, with time.

"I should go," he mutters, pushing himself up, shaking his head. She reaches up for him, but he stops her, wrapping both his hands around one of hers and kissing her palm, before turning and heading out the door. And she just watches him go.

In hindsight, it probably wasn't a great idea. He's so volatile and unpredictable when he's been drinking, and she doesn't want him to get hurt. But Neal will do what Neal wants to do. That's always how he's been.

When Neal pushes open the front door and staggers out of the building, his senses are assaulted by the New York rush. The lights, the sounds, the people; they all whirl around him, mixing together and pouring through his brain faster than he can handle. He suddenly feels incredibly dizzy with everything swirling around his head at once, and he barely manages to get to a garbage bin before he's sick, lunging over it, his shaking hands gripping the rim.

* * *

"Diana, where's Caffrey?"

"I don't know, Boss. Haven't heard from him since you booted him out."

Peter shoots Diana a sharp glare at this- he's not used to her _taking a tone_ with him, then he just sighs, waving a hand. "Find him."

She nods, going to the computer and pulling up his tracking information. "He's…he's at a convenience store. 8540 5th." Peter blinks at this, narrowing his eyes to try to figure this out. His shoulders slump when he finally does, pressing two fingers to his temple when he crosses his arms.

"Damn it, Neal."

* * *

"I'm gonna have to ask you to go now."

"You're joking."

"I can't sell to you, kid."

Neal blinks, his head swimming and pounding simultaneously as he digests this information. He leans his weight forward against the counter, swallowing before speaking, his slurred voice cracking uncontrollably. "I don' know what you're talking 'bout."

He knows he should stop. He should have stopped hours ago, but he doesn't know how. Once it starts, Neal has no clue how to stop it. He just has to take it as far as he possibly can. It's how he does everything. It's his only option.

"Listen, kid, you need to go home. Drink some water, sleep it off. This is the last thing you need," the older clerk scoffs, picking up the bottle of whiskey and setting it on the counter behind him.

Neal shifts, raising his eyebrows. "I'm a paying customer."

"You're an incredibly intoxicated customer, is what you are, and I reserve the right to refuse service to anyone."

Neal's a charmer. He's always been able to get whatever he wants, no matter what; but right now, his sleeves are haphazardly pushed up, his hands are shaking violently, he can't keep his eyes focused, he can't keep his speech straight, and he swallows sickness every few minutes, squeezing his eyes shut when he does. "That's not a good way t'do business, my friend," Neal starts, leaning in a bit more, and the clerk keeps his eyes on Neal, cautiously reaching for the phone. Neal sees this and raises his hands up, exhaling sharply. "Okay, okay. I'm gone." He turns and takes his exit. After a scene like that, Neal would normally swagger out of there with all of the charisma in the world, but right now he can barely stay on his feet. As soon as he's out the door, he nearly slams into a man walking towards the entrance, and he stumbles as he tries to stay upright. "Son of a-"

"Easy does it," the man murmurs, grunting as he struggles against Neal's weight to keep him standing. This man, this savior, guides Neal to the side of the brick building, giving the younger man something to lean against, and Neal just presses a palm to the wall, head down as he attempts to regain his footing, head spinning. He recognizes the man's voice, and even though it echoes through his pounding skull, he isn't able to identify it until the man's next words. "You okay?" Neal doesn't glance up when he pins the voice. Peter. He tries to speak, but all that comes out are a few unintelligibly slurred murmurs. A sudden sharp stagger leaves him almost falling to the ground again, and Peter catches him by the arm, carefully guiding him to sit. Neal just sinks down against the wall, eyes shut as he tilts his chin up toward the skyline. Peter shakes his head, crossing his arms and holding a finger to his temple, squeezing his eyes shut. "How did I not see this coming?" he mutters, and Neal doesn't respond. He'd shake his head, but even the thought of moving makes him so dizzy his stomach lurches. Peter glances down, making sure Neal isn't going to be sick, and after a moment, sighs, sitting next to Neal. He mimics his position: arms thrown over his raised knees, head hanging, and Peter studies Neal for a moment.

"'ter…" Neal starts, in a pathetic attempt to say Peter's name, and the older man just scoffs, dropping a hand on Neal's shoulder. The act makes Neal jump, and his eyes flutter shut again once he's gotten over the shock. It's only a few minutes before Neal slumps even lower, and Peter sighs when the younger man loses control of his body completely and collapses against Peter, his head knocking into his mentor's shoulder. At first, Peter stiffens, instinctively lifting a hand in brief panic, then sighs, leaning his own head back against the wall, and occasionally glancing over at Neal.

He's quiet when he radios Diana in the van. "Diana, I've got him here. He's unconscious. Let's get him back to the Bureau."

"Gotcha."

He keeps his eyes on his friend, making sure to keep him sitting up, and hears the van door swing open and footsteps approaching. Jones whistles. "Damn. He really went for it."

Peter just nods, his face pinched as he tries to contain the emotion swimming through him. "He did."

Jones sighs, and reaches down, hooking his arms under Neal's shoulders and lifting him up. Peter stands, brushing off his trousers taking one side while Jones takes the other. They barely manage to get him to the van, he's totally unresponsive and completely uncooperative.

Peter just sighs when they get him in a chair, slumped forward with his head resting against the desk. He shakes his head. "Damn it, Neal," he quietly murmurs. Jones and Diana don't say a word. After studying his friend for a moment, he glances up to the front of the van. "Can we drive, please?"

The struggle of getting Neal's unconscious body out of the van, into the Bureau, up the elevator, and into the conference room parallels the pain and frustration Peter feels when he thinks about his friend. A thought strikes him: does Neal have any idea how hard this is on Peter?

He knows Neal is struggling. God, he knows. But sometimes it feels like Caffrey's just being his egotistical self when he shows no regard for Peter and all of the time, work, and love he has put into getting Neal better.

That's not fair to say. He knows it's not, but he also knows addicts are selfish people. It must be written in Neal's blood.

It's been hours, and Peter doesn't want to make Jones or Diana stay there any longer, so he sends them home. They protest, obviously, wanting to be there for their boss, and the CI they've grown so attached to, but he waves them off. He can handle this. He needs to do this by himself.

He's sitting at the conference table, occasionally sipping at a mug of coffee, just staring out the window at the skyline as he waits for Neal to wake. The younger man is tucked in the corner, curled up on the carpet, not making a sound in his whiskey-induced oblivion.

Elizabeth called earlier. He couldn't bring himself to speak to her, he knew his voice would be cracking uncontrollably and the last thing he wants to do is break down, so he shoots her a quick text. _Be home soon. Emergency. Neal._

She didn't reply. He knows it's because she understands.

Several more hours pass; crawling, miserable hours, that find Peter numb and alone with his thoughts. He can't make sense of any of them. He doesn't know how this happened. He doesn't know where he went wrong. He should have been able to stop it. He should have been able to help his friend.

A cough that threatens to turn into a miserable retch pulls Peter out of his daze, and he quickly grabs the garbage bin, pulling it over to Neal's side and helping the younger man sit up. He looks away as he hears the coughing again, wincing. He's had to do this a few too many times for his personal liking.

"Easy, easy. It's alright," Peter murmurs as Neal finishes, sloppily wiping at the back of his mouth. Peter doesn't speak after this, standing and going to get a glass of water for his friend.

"Thanks," is all Neal can manage, voice cracking. Peter nods, not looking at him. Neal takes a moment, but after a while, is finally able to face the man he's repeatedly let down so severely. "Peter." Peter still doesn't look over, but just grunts. Neal hesitates, then speaks this conclusion. "I'm way more fucked-up than I thought."

Peter finally looks over Neal at this, then just shakes his head, looking down.

He has no words. The man he has fought for, for so long, has let him down for the last time. "I give up, Neal." Neal's eyes widen slightly at this. He's hurt, and he looks it, but he should have known better. He should have known this day would come. He swallows, nodding, and looks down.

"Okay," he manages, after some time. He glances back up at Peter, face carved from pain. "Okay."


	25. 23: After the Storm

A/N: Dear friends. I give you the final chapter of Occupational Hazard. I had so much fun with this story, and while it is definitely not my best work, I'm so glad I had the balls to put it up here and share it with all of you. You have no idea what all of the support meant to me, and it's only encouraged me to continue writing. Love to all.

Chapter 23

It only took a week.

Just seven days. Peter had given up on Neal, which meant more than just losing his faith in the younger man. If Neal wasn't working for Peter, it meant he had to go back to prison. It was just a matter of time. He couldn't go back to prison. So he ran.

He ran, and he hid. He hid from the truth, from the situation, from Peter. From Peter's men, waiting for him to come out so they could cuff him.

For seven days, Neal became completely invisible. For a man of such grand charisma, he's incredibly good at making himself invisible. It was never hard for Neal, but especially now, when even he has no idea who he really is. He's lost. He's broken.

Sisley hasn't made any contact with him. Neal's best guess is she doesn't want to associate with him, now that she's in prison and getting sober, and he's so obviously not.

He's wandering down the street, scanning the crowd for a mark. He's desperate, and his mind isn't currently capable of running the elaborate cons he'd be using to fund his habit, so he's back to the basics. Lifting wallets. Making 'friends'. He's drunk and alone, the way he's been continuously for the past week, but today he can also add paranoid to that list. A light chill runs through him, as he gets the feeling he's being followed. A siren screams into his ear as a police car whizzes past him, and the sound makes him jump, resulting in him nearly stumbling over another passerby.

"Watch it, asshole," the gruff voice mutters, and Neal staggers to a stop, pressing a palm to the building he's near, and taking a few deep breaths. Once he's regained his footing again, he continues on his way, pulling his coat tighter around him.

He makes sure to never make eye-contact with anyone, but something, somehow, in this moment urges him to glance up. His heart skids to a stop in his chest as he locks eyes with the man staring at him from across the street. Peter. His former mentor's eyes are wide, and he's stopped in a panic, unsure of how to approach the situation. He certainly doesn't want to spook Neal.

Neal takes a sharp inhale, and as soon as he sees Peter shift, presumably to cross the street and follow Neal, he manages to disappear into the crowd. The way he always does. Peter blinks, and the man he used to know so well, but now can hardly recognize, is gone.

Neal doesn't sleep that night, not even for a minute. He's been steadily drinking since around 4 that afternoon, and he should have been knocked unconscious hours ago, but seeing Peter has jarred something in him that keeps him wide awake as he stares over the skyline from the roof, a shaking hand gripping a wine glass.

He's still there when the sun rises, though now he's sitting. The violent shaking that racks his body doesn't stop, no matter how many times he refills his glass, and he's slumped in a chair and holding a palm to his head as he hangs onto his last threads of consciousness. It's hell, and he doesn't want to do it anymore. And he thinks about Peter. He thinks about the man who gave him the opportunity to turn everything around, to give him a place to stay, to give him a name he could keep forever, so he didn't have to run anymore. And when things went downhill for Neal, and he fell into this cycle, Peter never gave up on him. Until now.

Even in his haze, Neal knows exactly what he needs to do.

In this state, it probably isn't a great idea for him to go for a walk, but for the first time in a long time, he knows exactly where he's going. He hasn't slept in days, he hasn't seen a moment sober in days, and he hasn't spoken to a friend in days, but right now, he's determined to get where he's going, even in his complete and utter intoxication. The longer he walks, the angrier he gets. Every time he shuts his eyes, he sees the tortured look of disappointment on Peter's face, and when he finally reaches the Bureau, he can barely stay standing, a combination of his rage and his just over 12 straight hours of inebriation.

Up in the office, Peter is distracted. He's trying to read through some intelligence on his latest case, but all he can think about is seeing Neal. He should have been able to get to him. This preys on his mind for a while, when his office phone interrupts him.

"Yeah," he mutters upon answering, pressing a finger into the button for speakerphone.

"Agent Burke, this is Westley, I've just been told Neal Caffrey is in front of the building."

Peter stops at this, staring blankly ahead. It takes him a moment, but once the information sinks in, he purses his lips and just hangs up, jumping into action. He's in a daze as he pulls on his coat and makes his way to the elevator, tapping a foot during the ride down as he mentally prepares himself for whatever this may be.

The sight he takes in when he exits the building brings him to a sudden halt. Neal is pacing in circles- stumbling, really- and his fingers are tangled in his hair. He keeps his head down, eyes squeezed shut, and Peter could swear he hears Neal muttering to himself. Maybe he's just imagining that part, but the man has lost it. Completely, utterly. Peter's heart sinks. "Neal." Neal doesn't respond, continuing in his small circles. "Neal, hey." Neal finally stops and looks up at this, looking like a deer caught in headlights, and he studies Peter for a moment, eyes wide as though he doesn't recognize the mean speaking to him. Peter sighs, shaking his head. "Its me. Peter."

Neal tilts his head down, trying out the name in his mouth. "Peter." It clicks, and Neal squeezes his eyes shut, muttering the name again under his breath. "Peter."

Peter nods at this, carefully reaching out and hooking an arm behind Neal's shoulder, carefully guiding the stumbling man to a bench. Neal leans forward with his head in his hands, and Peter places a hand on Neal's shoulder. "Why'd you run, bud."

Neal doesn't reply to this, but does look up, studying Peter for a moment. The older man is struck by how raw and red Neal's eyes are, and he attributes it to the insane amount of alcohol he's sure his friend has pumped into his system over the last 24 hours or so, until he sees tears build up and threaten to spill. He squeezes his eyes shut. He doesn't know how to handle tears. He wouldn't know how to handle it, if Neal cried. "I'm done," Neal mumbles, lacing his fingers to keep the shaking at bay.

Peter glances up again at this. "You're what?"

Neal repeats himself, clearly trying to enunciate more this time around, but failing completely as his words slip together. "I'm done with this." He hesitates, searching the sky. "I give up." Peter furrows a brow.

"Neal, you can't-"

Neal interrupts here, looking up at Peter. The younger man is near incoherent, but he knows exactly what he wants to say. "I give up pretending I can control this, the way I want to control everything. I'm done letting this run my life. I know I can do better, you've shown me that."

Peter hears this, and it swirls around in his head for a moment. He wants to believe Neal, so badly, but he's not sure he can after all of this. "What did I have to do with it?"

Neal hesitates, before looking back up at Peter. "You're the only one who could change my mind."

.366 DAYS LATER.

The crowd in the lecture hall doesn't intimidate him anymore. He stands, comfortable, and scans the group. He's at the prison, Sisley's prison, and he's just been asked to be the secretary for this weekly meeting. He runs the whole operation, now. His fingers wrap around the podium, and he shifts, smiling out at the broken faces around him. "Hi. My name is Neal. I'm an alcoholic. And it has been three hundred and sixty five days, since my last drink."

A light smattering of applause responds, encouraging him. He looks down, smirking a personal smile of pride, only for himself. Sisley keeps her eyes down. He doesn't even see her in the crowd.

"Today, I just wanted to share some thoughts I have, about being clean for a year today, and what that means for me." A few people nod, and he takes a deep breath before he continues. "I'm not a big fan of who I am. I was- at least, I thought I was, back then. I was kidding myself, proud of all of these things I had done, because they were the only things I had. Better be proud of something awful, than nothing at all." He hesitates, then looks out at the crowd again. "Like some of you, I had a lot of people who cared about me, deeply. And also, like some of you, I felt totally alone. Regardless. I never met a soul who identified with me, who understood how hard this was." He chuckles, but it's weak. Sad. "'Just stop,' they said. 'You know you're killing yourself. Why don't you just stop?' It's never that easy. It consumes your thoughts, all the time. I've always gone for things, 100 percent. All the way. I can't do anything unless I put everything into it. That included my disease."

Something tugs at Neal's heart, and encourages him to look to the back of the room at that moment. Peter is there, leaning against the doorway with his arms crossed. He nods to Neal. Neal hesitates, swallowing, and nods back, before beginning again. "My job isn't easy. It's hard. It's a lot of pressure, and no matter how badly I want a drink, or ten, at the end of the day, to take some of the stress off, I do better now that I'm sober. I don't have as much stress, or as much to worry about, because I'm can do my absolute best. That's the kind of man I want to be." He pauses, looking back up at Peter, who has a hint of a grin on his lips. "I have a lot of good people in my life. I wouldn't be here today, were it not for a few of them." Neal hesitates, glancing down. "I'm better now, because I finally did what those people did all of this time: cared about myself. And that's what I'm proud of, today."

When the meeting is over, Neal immediately finds Peter, strolling up to him, wearing a grin. Peter slaps a hand on Neal's shoulder. "How are you, bud."

Neal clears his throat, and looks down for a moment, before glancing back up at Peter. The smile fades slightly. "I'm doing okay, Peter," he says, nodding. "I'm doing okay."

Peter can't help but cock his head at this. "Only okay?"

The younger man shrugs. "It's just today. I'm allowed to have a less than perfect day. Tomorrow will be better."

Peter nods at this, frowning as he sips his coffee, scanning the room. A grin spreads across Neal's face as he focuses on something across the room, and Peter glances up to see what it is. Neal has crossed the hall, returning with a young man reluctantly trailing behind him. He's of average height, almost lanky, and the mess of blonde curls piled on top of his head make him look even younger. In reality, he's probably fresh out of grad school, but everything about this man- the way his clothes hold his frame, his hair in his eyes, the way he holds himself- speaks as though he's years younger.

"Hey, this is my Dad. Dad, this is Graham. He's my sponsee, he'd like to work in Federal law enforcement and I thought you kids might hit it off." Graham makes eye contact with Peter, and extends a hand to shake. Peter likes him already. He grins, shaking the young man's hand. Neal glances to Peter, raising his eyebrows as he silently asks for approval. Peter just grins.

"Graham. Good to meet you." He shifts, crossing his arms. "Federal law enforcement, huh? What do you want to do?"

Graham is quiet at first, but he quickly warms up to Peter, and in minutes the two are exchanging banter the way Neal and Peter do. After some time, they remember that Neal is there, and Graham glances over at Neal. "Thanks for sharing today, Neal. I really needed that today." Neal grins and slaps Graham on the back, but his smile fades when his eyes wander across the hall and zero in on Sisley, sitting with her head down, alone.

"Neal. Neal. Hey."

Neal glances up again, blinking, and Peter raises his eyebrows at him. Neal draws a shaky breath, glancing down for a moment, before looking up again and resuming his conversation.

Today isn't perfect. Life isn't perfect. Neal isn't perfect.

But he's a hell of a lot better than he was.

**End.**


End file.
